Dark as Night
by Flagg1991
Summary: Lucy falls into forbidden love with her brother, and strange things begin to happen. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. Forbidden Love

It started small, but don't all things? People, ideas, even things. Skyscrapers don't just materialize. They start as an unimpressive concrete foundation and then, over time, grow until they tower over the world.

Just like Lucy's love for her brother.

It began with her attraction to the concept of forbidden love, a love that was secret and taboo, something that people did not understand, the way they did not understand her. She would lie awake in bed at night and imagine a faceless lover, a vague shadow, whom she was not supposed to love but loved regardless. This figure was male (Lucy already knew she liked boys and not girls), but had no name, no history. She didn't know why she wasn't supposed to love him, and every reason she conjured didn't satisfy her, so the fantasy existed as an outline, lacking detail. It sustained her, though. For a while. Before long, she _needed_ a face, a human countenance to gaze lovingly upon, eyes to stare into, a mouth to trace with her eyes. For a time it was her bust of Edwin the vampire. She spoke longingly of his cold lips, but in her dreams, those lips were warm and full, not the lips of a course but the lips of a living boy with soft, pliable flesh and a beating heart. Her dream lover would hold her in his arms, and she could feel his life, his vitality. It soothed her and made her smile.

At some point, she began to look longer at her brother, her eyes lingering on the curve of his face, the boyish glint in his eyes. She would make excuses to spend time with him, writing poems in seconds and then coming to him as though they were great works of art that required his opinion. She would follow him around like a puppy, asking him his input on this thing and that thing. When he spent time with their other sisters, she became jealous. She wanted him to pay attention to _her_.

During the beginning, she didn't know that she was growing to see Lincoln as her forbidden lover. She told herself that she simply wanted to spend time with her only brother. When she was half-way honest with herself, she said that his approval was important since he was a boy. It was a psychology thing she'd read. The first male a girl knows is her father, and his approval helps foster a healthy social and sexual development. That's why she found herself yearning for her brother's attention. At least that's what she told herself.

Over the summer, however, she came face-to-face with Lincoln in a dream. They were standing in a dark void, just the two of them, removed entirely from everything else but each other. When he smiled at her and took her hand, her heart fluttered and her cheeks burned. She looked coyly down, and he used his free hand to brush her bangs back from her eyes. They stared at each other for a long time, and when she woke, she felt a hollow ache in her chest. It was the ache of growing schoolgirl infatuation, an empty, lonely pining that made one feel as though they were suffocating.

 _My own brother,_ she thought as she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, her skin warming in the spill of bright morning sunshine falling through the window. Her heart jumped at this thought, and a small grin spread across her face. He was certainly a real, live, warm boy, and cute too. And he was _definitely_ forbidden to love. They were flesh and blood, a sister and brother, too close to love, too close to touch. She relished in the way it made her feel to imagine kissing her brother while their parents and siblings weren't around, knowing it was wrong, fighting against it, but unable to resist the taste of his lips and the sensation of his heart pounding against hers, both in time, in tune.

She wondered if he ever looked at her in that way. She doubted it, as sibling attraction wasn't something that most people indulged in, but it made her giddy to think that he might steal furtive glances at her, his eyes softly caressing her face and slender throat the way hers did his. When they chanced to be in the living room together, Lucy made sure to sit next to him, getting as close as she possibly could. He usually asked her to back up and give him space, but she hoped, prayed, that one day he would put his arm around her shoulder and draw him close to him. Then, grinning like a satisfied cat, she would rest her head against his chest and listen to the steady rhythm of his heart. She would look up at him, and he would look down at her, and everything would be right in the world.

She wanted this so badly that she ached. Each day passed in a slow, breathless misery. She roamed the house, her hands drawn to her chest and her mind racing. _Today...today's the day you tell him_. Her stomach would quiver with terror at the prospect. What if he said no? What if a look of disgust crossed his face and he turned her away as a freak? She couldn't handle that. Not now. So she would hold off one more day. Then another. Then another. She couldn't tell which was worse: The fear that he would reject her, or the pain when she passed him in the hall without grabbing his hand and gazing deeply into his eyes. How long could she do this? How long could she go on as though she wasn't head over heels for him?

Summer passed and school started. They walked together most days. Each morning, as they navigated the side streets and cut through the park, she would take a deep breath and started to reach out for his hand, but she would always chicken out at the last moment.

When she woke on the rainy morning of October 12th, she decided once and for all that today was the day.


	2. Morning in the Jungle

Lincoln Loud slapped the snooze button and rolled over in bed. It couldn't be 6am already. He opened one eye, but his vision was blurry, the numbers on the digital readout a red smear. He blinked, and the scene swam into focus. 6:00am. He sighed heavily and threw the cover over his head. How did the night pass so quickly? He felt like he'd only just fallen asleep. Sure, he stayed up until past midnight reading Ace Savvy comics, but he did that all the time, and he felt fine come morning. Today, however, his head ached and his mind was all fuzzy. He closed his eyes, and felt himself dropping back into the warm chambers of sleep. The alarm buzzed again, and he reached a hand out, feeling along the nightstand. His fingers brushed it, and it toppled off and landed on the floor, still crying out.

"Uhhhh," he said, throwing the cover off. "It's going to be a _long_ day."

Muttering to himself, he got up, grabbed the clock, and hit the OFF button, barely able to restrain himself from smacking it a few times to show his displeasure. Sitting up now, he rubbed his head and licked his chapped lips. The cold, damp Michigan falls always did this to him. He kept a tube of Chapstick on his nightstand, but he used the last of it yesterday and forget to stop by Flip's and buy a new one, so he was stuck. Great. Just another reason to jump out of bed and greet the day with a song.

He started to nod off, but snapped awake when he started to fall over. Alright, sheesh, I'm up. He stood, stretched, and went out into the hall. A line of girls stood at the bathroom door, four deep. He lifted his hand and let it fall against his thigh with a meaty slap. Lovely. Just...great. Looks like I'm pissing out the window _again_. At least the house next door was empty so no one would see his thing. In his current condition, he couldn't say he even cared if anyone saw it.

Scratching his butt, he went over to the window and lifted the sash, a cold breeze washing over his naked torso and making him shiver. He got close, and that's when he noticed the moving van parked at the curb. Two men in blue overalls were carrying a grandfather clock up the flagstone walk. Through one of the upstairs windows, Lincoln spotted a man in a suit walking around and inspecting things like a 5 star general with a stick up his butt. You gotta be kidding me.

Lincoln closed the window with a sigh. Okay, he _did_ care if someone saw his thing. Guess it's the line for me. Yay.

In the hall, he stood behind Luan and shifted from one foot to the other. His bladder wasn't exactly full, but it was close.

"Hey, Linc," Luan said, turning. "I had a funny dream last night."

Lincoln threw his head back and sighed. Oh, God, it's too early for this. "What?" he asked.

"I-I actually can't remember," Luan said, surprising him with seriousness. "There was a clown and a bear riding a unicycle involved, though."

"What goes on in your head?" he asked.

Luan shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know, but it's a regular three ring circus."

"Sounds more like mental illness to me."

Luan's brow furrowed. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Lincoln said, feeling a sudden rush of misanthropy. "Just that there's something wrong with you."

She sighed and shook her head. "You're an asshole when you're grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy."

"Yes you are. Your eyes are red and you look like an old drunk fresh off a three day bender."

Lincoln opened his mouth, but closed it again. "Okay, maybe I _am_ a little grumpy. Sorry."

"It's okay," she chirruped. "We all get grumpy sometimes."

 _No shit?_

Instead, he shut up and waited as the line slowly widdled down. Finally, he got his crack at the pot, and he felt much better with an empty bladder. In his room, he stripped out of his old undies and pulled on a new pair, followed by jeans and an orange shirt. He glanced out the window as he put his shoes on, and saw the moving men carrying a table inside. He wondered if whoever was moving in had any daughters. He was starting to like girls; before, they were icky and vaguely gross, but now they looked soft and warm and he sometimes what it would feel like to kiss one. Once or twice, he even wondered what one would look like without clothes...

Shaking his head, he tied his shoes and got up. He didn't have time for this crap right now. It was past 6:30. He had to be out the door in fifteen minutes, which meant he'd have to huff his breakfast like cheap gas. He briefly thought of foregoing his morning walk and just catching a ride with Lori, but he liked walking, even if it _was_ raining and cold.

Before he left his room, he grabbed his umbrella and coat. In the dining room, his sisters were all slurping up their breakfast, and Lincoln was reminded of feeding time at the zoo. Feeding time at the zoo had to be less hectic, though. Lola and Lana were arguing, Leni was prattling on to no one in particular about this cute top and that, Lynn was talking through a mouthful of sports bar, spraying granola all over Lisa, who sat back and made a dangerous face. Luna was listening to music on her phone and using her index fingers to drum a beat on the table. This place is worse than a zoo. It's more like a mental asylum.

Lincoln shook his head and went into the kitchen, where three boxes of cereal stood side-by-side-by-side on the counter. He reached for the Cocoa Crips, but the box was empty. Next he tried the Fruity Puffs, but those were empty too. His eyes fell on the final box in the line, some mango dried fruit crud his mom bought during one of the many diet phases she went through. Wait, don't tell me.

He picked it up.

Sure enough, it was as empty as his stomach.

"Hey, Lincoln," Lucy said from behind him, and he jumped a foot. He turned, and she held out a bowl of Cocoa Crisps. "I made you breakfast," she said. "I know this is your favorite."

"Thanks," he said, genuinely touched.

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of her lips. "You're welcome."

She didn't move. "You're a good sister," he said, starting to feel uncomfortable.

"Thank you."

With his bowl, he turned tail and fled into the dining room, taking an empty seat next to Lori, who had her face buried in her phone, as always. "You're going to go blind if you keep doing that," he said.

"You're going to go blind if you keep playing with yourself at night," she shot back.

"I don't play with myself at night!"

"Yes you do," Lynn said, "I hear you." She lifted her shirt and rhythmically slapped her stomach. "Oh, Ace Savvy, Ace Savvy, harder!"

The table erupted in laughter. Milk shot out of Luan's nose, and Lori fell out of her chair. Lincoln's face burned, and he shook his head.

"When you can't find the tweezers, check Lincoln's room!" Lynn cried.

"I _am_ missing a microscope," Lisa said.

Lincoln was starting to get mad. Every morning these bitches had a roast session just _waiting_ for him. He took a bite of cereal and tried to ignore them.

"I don't call you 'baby brother' for nothing," Lori said.

"You know Lincoln," Luan said, "he always comes up short."

"Come on," Luna said, "leave the _little_ guy alone."

That was it. Lincoln swept his bowl off the table and shoved away, getting up and stalking out, his fists clenched.

"Lincy, like, has a small penis," Leni said, and slapped her knee. He spun on her, and she cringed.

"I DON'T HAVE A SMALL PENIS! IT'S NORMAL SIZED!"

Everyone laughed, and he stormed off, grabbing his coat and umbrella.

"Don't let the rain touch it," Lori called after him, "it might shrink even more!"

"Yeah," Luan said, "then it'll be a vagina!"

Lincoln slammed the door as hard as he could and started down the stairs, stopping to seethe. Every morning. Every single morning. He was so sick of it! They always ganged up on him and he had nobody on _his_ side. They were a team, a unit, a crew, and he was the perpetual outsider, doomed to fall victim to their lioness pride whenever they were hungry.

Shrugging into his coat, Lincoln started down the stairs but stopped when the door opened and closed behind him. "Hey," Lucy said, "wait up." He half-turned: She hugged her books to her chest as she hurried to him.

"You gonna make fun of me too?" he asked.

"No," she said as they started walking. "I told them they weren't funny. They called me Dorkula and told me to go bite a neck."

Lincoln couldn't help but chuckle. "It's good to know I'm not the only one they pick on."

Lucy shrugged. "What do you expect from a bunch of teenage girls? They're savages."

"They do this to me every day," Lincoln fumed. "Yesterday they were making fun of my teeth, and the day before that it was me liking sci-fi. No matter what I do or say, they mob me and run me over."

"Why do you think I keep to myself?" Lucy asked. They were passing the house next door, and Lincoln craned to see. Two moving men stood on the covered porch, one smoking a cigarette and the other talking into a cellphone. "Try living with Lynn. Last night she kept patting me on the top of the head and shooting spitballs at me. Finally I went into the vent to get some peace."

Lincoln turned, and started: A tall, broad man in a dark suit stood before him. The man's heavily lidded eyelids raised slightly, which Lincoln took as an indication that he, too, had been startled.

"I'm sorry," he said in a posh accent, not British but refined, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I-It's okay," Lincoln said, taking stock of the man. He was about sixty with thick iron colored hair tucked under a bowler hat. He wore a salt and pepper mustache. His skin was leathery and lined. "I should have been watching where I was going."

"As should I," the man admitted. "I was gathering wool. Not a bad day for it. Too cold and wet. Do you live next door?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, and looked at Lucy. "Right there," he hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

The man's eyes lit up. "Ah, we're neighbors then. Richard Straker, at your service," he tipped his hat.

"Uh, I'm Lincoln, and this is my sister Lucy."

"It's nice to meet you," he said, "now if you'll excuse me, I have to ensure that the help isn't dallying much." He cast a hard glance at the porch, where the movers were, indeed, dallying.

"Nice to meet you," Lincoln said, then went on, looking back over his shoulder.

"He's rich," Lucy said.

"How do you know?" Lincoln asked.

"Did you hear his accent? And the way he called those movers 'the help'? He's loaded."

Lincoln looked over his shoulder again. Straker stood on the stairs, pointing and talking to the movers. Lincoln squinted, half expecting to see a bulging wallet stuffed full of money sticking out of his back pocket. Of course, he saw nothing.

Next to him, Lucy sighed. "It must be nice being rich. If we were rich I could have my own room and not have to bunk with Lynn."

Straker turned and looked at Lincoln, and Lincoln quickly turned away. "Yeah, it's pretty sweet," he said.

"That's where you're lucky. You can close your door and get away."

"Not really. Everyone barges in all the time. And God forbid I try to get any peace and quiet."

He thought back to the time he bought a pair of noise cancelling earbuds off the TV, and how totally and thoroughly _offended_ his sisters were that he wanted to tune them out for fifteen minutes so he could read a comic book. It was like he spit in their faces one-by-one.

"Price you have to pay," Lucy said, and leaned into him, knocking him slightly off course. "Nothing in life is free."

Lincoln leaned into her, knocking her even more off course than she knocked him. "I guess."

"I read that in a book," she said, and leaned into him again. His feet slipped and he almost went down.

"Okay," he said, smiling, "that's enough. We're going to kill each other."

"At least we'll get some peace and quiet," she said, "coffins are private."

Lincoln cocked his brow. "Ooookay."

Lucy could have kicked herself. After she decided that today was the day she would profess her love for Lincoln, she promised herself that she wouldn't say anything too creepy or off-putting. The problem was, she didn't know what other people considered creepy or off-putting until she'd either said it and heard it with her own ears, or until someone else reacted to it. Sigh. She was so awkward sometimes. It was true, though. In a coffin no one could bother you.

They walked in silence for a while, Lucy's mind racing. How could she save this and now look like a total weirdo? They were cutting through a wooded section of the park, the trees lining the path blazing with dull autumn colors. "It's pretty," she said.

"Yeah," Lincoln said absently.

Lucy sighed. That wasn't good enough. She was still trying to think up an angle when they reached the school and had to part. "Alright, Luce," Lincoln said, "I'll see you later."

Disappointed, Lucy nodded. "See ya." She turned to go, but Lincoln stopped her,

"Lucy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for talking to me," he rubbed the back of his neck, "and sticking up for me back there. I really appreciate it."

Lucy smiled. "Any time."


	3. Puppy Love

Lucy liked rainy days. Her grades, on the other hand, didn't, since she spent more time gazing out the window than focusing on her work: Most everything a teacher said on days like these went in one ear and out the other. Addition and math, sure, okay; General Spartacus fought General Lee at the Battle of Mordor, 'k'. Most people assumed she liked them because she was "Miss Doom and Gloom" per Lynn (who was already setting herself up to be Miss Peaked in High School), but that wasn't it, or at least not all of it. Rainy days were...cozy; she liked nothing more than reading by soft lamplight on a chilly, drizzly afternoon. Rain was like snow in that she liked it, but she didn't particularly like going out _in_ it. She was perfectly content to sit by the window and watch.

The one thing she didn't like about rainy days, however, was how slick the floors became. At home that really wasn't a concern, since most of the house was carpeted, but here, at Royal Woods Consolidated, all the floors were tile, and the place became a death trap with even a light, five minute drizzle. When third period was over and she got up to go to lunch, she slipped, and almost fell. With a small exclamation, she grabbed onto her desk, but fell anyway, dragging it down with her. The kids who hadn't already left all laughed, some of them pointing.

"Have a nice trip," Taylor Hogan said, "see you next fall!" Taylor was the class cunt, blonde and prissy with her nose turned firmly up. Lucy hated that bitch.

"Are you okay, Lucy?" Mrs. Paulsen asked, rushing over and dropping to one knee.

"I'm fine," Lucy said, getting up. She wasn't hurt, but she was embarrassed. She righted the desk and gathered her books.

"Are you sure, Lucy?" Mrs. Paulsen asked worriedly.

"Yeah," Lucy said, turning to her teacher. The rest of the class had filtered out. "Just a wounded ego."

Mrs. Paulsen laughed. "We've all been there. I went a whole day before realizing my shirt was on inside out."

Lucy appreciated her teacher's efforts to make her feel better, but she still blushed furiously as she stuck her books in her locker and went into the crowded cafeteria. As she waited in line, she scanned the tables, looking for her brother. She spotted him sitting near the far wall with Clyde and a few other boys they ran with. She smiled and clasped her hands behind her back. At the counter, she took a plastic tray and waited as a lunch lady slapped a spoonful of mashed potatoes into one of the little compartments. She then forked a suspicious piece of meat into the main one. Lucy's nose crinkled and she closely examined it. It was _supposed_ to be Salisbury steak, she thought, but it was probably that Johnson kid who went missing a few weeks ago, seasoned with the broken hopes and aspirations of the school's kitchen workers. And most likely boogers, too. She could see them back there, standing at the counter before a tray of steak, their fingers up their noses. "Time to kick it up a notch, BAM!"

Grabbing a carton of chocolate milk, she crossed the cafeteria and sat next to her brother, who was so busy with Clyde that he didn't notice her.

"Hey, Lincoln."

He jumped, cried out, and turned, his hand flying to his chest. "Lucy! Don't you scare me enough at home?"

"Sorry," she said, opening her milk. She didn't mean to always sneak up on her siblings. She didn't know how it happened, all she did was walk up to them like a normal person; half the time they weren't paying attention, the other half there was such a ruckus that they wouldn't be able to hear her even if she stomped her feet like an elephant. "I just wanted to see what's up."

"Uh, nothing," Lincoln said, "just a normal day."

"Good," she said, struck dumb. What should she say? What _could_ she say? She didn't want to look like a total dweeb. "I slipped and fell."

Lincoln blinked. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she took a drink. "Just embarrassed."

"Maybe if you didn't wear those weird dress shoes every day you wouldn't slip," one of Lincoln's friends said. He was an ugly, goofy looking toad with wild red hair and buck teeth. He reminded Lucy of Carrot Top...if Carrot Top smoked cracked and rubbed greasy pizza on his face every morning before leaving the house.

Lucy started to insult him, but Lincoln spoke up. "Leave her alone, her shoes are fine. I almost slipped three times today."

There was a firm edge to his voice, and his little friend took note. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it."

Lucy smiled and looked at her big brother, her heart swelling. She turned back to her tray and happily ate her lunch as Lincoln and his friends continued their conversation. Not once did she add to it: She was content simply to be near Lincoln and to hear his voice.

When the bell rang, she sighed and slumped her shoulders. She got up, grabbed her tray, and looked at her brother. "You wanna walk home together?"

"Sure," Lincoln said. Her question struck him as strange; they almost always walked home together lately.

"See you then," she said.

Her next class was history, which she liked enough...better than math and science at least. The teacher, Mr. Jordan, a big, fat ex-hippie with a white beard, was boring, though, and even on a sunny day she found herself staring out the window. Today, she gazed across the rain swept football field. Kids in football gear were running laps and practicing. From this distance she couldn't tell if it was the boys team or the girls team. If it was the girls team, her sister Lynn was out there, splashing in the mud like a common pig. Lucy loved Lynn, as she did all her sisters, but Lynn could be a total freaking jock sometimes. It was annoying. She thought back to that morning, Lynn making fun of Lincoln, slapping her stomach and egging everyone else on to make fun of his...yeah.

It was typical sibling ribbing, but still, it made Lucy mad that they picked on Lincoln like that. He was a really great guy.

She should pay them back. If they could dish it out, they could take it, right? She grinned at the idea. Sure. Give them a taste of their own medicine. The only question was how. She wasn't much for pranks, that was Luan's territory, and she couldn't go to Luan for help because while her older sister would be more than happy to terrorize the others, she was making fun of Lincoln just as hard as anyone, so she deserved a healthy dose. An idea came to her, and she grinned. She turned away from the window, and Mr. Jordan was there, his face mere inches from her own. She started and jerked so hard that she nearly fell out of her chair. A titter ran through the class.

"Am I boring you, Miss Loud?" he asked.

"No," Lucy said. "I...I thought I saw something."

"A mobile Hot Topic?"

Lucy gritted her teeth. "No, a rabbit," she lied.

"You can rabbit gaze later. Right now you need to focus on the Civil War."

Two brothers, one in a gray shirt and one in a blue shirt, got mad and bitch slapped each other for four years. What's there to focus on?

Instead, she nodded. "Okay."

Mr. Jordan nodded, then went back to the front of the class. Lucy took a deep breath, her heart still pounding. At least she knew how her siblings felt when she snuck up on them now. She'd had to make a conscious effort to make more noise.

After history, Lucy spent the rest of the day in study hall. She had homework, but she sat it aside to write; she'd been trying to translate her feelings into poetry for weeks now, but everything she produced was pale and bloodless, failing to capture even the faintest whisper of her emotions. She burned to release them, if not to Lincoln than at least to the blank page, but she was mentally constipated.

She took out a crisp sheet of college ruled paper, picked up her pen, and sat with the tip hovering inches over the first line.

 _My love,_ she finally wrote, _is dark as night. Like a bird in restless flight_. She sat back and went over what she had. Was her love _really_ like a bird? She used that analogy because night rhymed with flight. Birds fly. Does her love for Lincoln fly? Through her heart and mind, maybe. As for the flight being restless, she was certainly that; young love is like music...when you're in the midst of it, you can't sit still, and if you _do_ sit still, it consumes you.

 _My love is dark as night_

 _Like a bird in restless flight_.

It _sounded_ good.

She poised her pen and thought.

 _I burn for your affection_

 _The touch of your hand_

She read the whole thing, decided she didn't like the last two lines, and scratched them out. The problem, she found, was not getting started, it was the step _after_. Many of her poems fell apart after the first two or even four lines.

 _I yearn for you_

 _My forbidden fruit_

 _The touch of you_

 _And the beat of your heart_

She liked that better, though it didn't rhyme. The first two lines did, which sort of set the tone; the rest should too. This accurately portrayed how she felt, though, so to hell with the rules of form.

 _I crave the presence of your soul_

 _And to be beheld in your eyes_

 _Your queen_

 _Dark as night_

Not bad. Not great, but not bad. She took out another sheet and immediately started a new one.

 _I don't care what the neighbors say_

 _I don't care what our mother thinks_

 _Take my hand and come with me_

 _To another world_

 _Where no one knows_

She held her pen to her chin, her mind working.

 _Hold me in your arms_

 _The world can fall away_

 _Hold hands with me  
Stay by my side_

 _And never leave_

She read it over and nodded. Again, not great, but not bad either. She started to write again when the bell rang, startling her. She shoved her poems into her chemistry book, gathered her things, and got up, waiting for the other kids to stream out before going into the hall. She stopped at her locker, grabbed her math and history books, and waited for a crowd of kids with backpacks to pass before going to the main doors. She craned her neck, saw Lincoln waiting on the bottom step, his hands in his jacket pockets, and smiled. She walked up to him, intentionally scraping her shoes against the concrete so he'd hear her.

He didn't.

"Hey, Linc."

He jumped. "Lucy!"

"You really need to start paying attention. I made as much noise as I could just so you wouldn't startle."

"Well, you didn't make enough."

They started walking.

"I'll start carrying symbols with me and crash them together every time I enter the room. How about that?"

"I don't know. It might work."

"Something tells me you and the others will still find a way to not notice me. Story of my life."

Lincoln threw his head back. "It's not that. You're just too quiet."

"I can't help it," she said honestly. "That's just who I am."

Lincoln started to reply, but stopped. He couldn't really argue with that. You are how you are. Picking someone apart for who they are is something Lynn and the others would do, and Lincoln didn't want to be like that: Even if it was in jest, it stung.

"Maybe I have my head up my ass too much," he said as they crossed the street, "and if I didn't, I'd hear you coming more often."

Lucy looked at him. "Finally _someone_ admits it." She leaned into him, knocking him off balance.

* * *

Lincoln opened the front door and stepped into the living room just after 4. Lucy came behind him, her books pressed against her chest. The house was dark and shadowy. The TV was on (sounded like...Judge Judy, which meant dad was here), but silence permeated the Loud house. Thank God for small favors. After this morning's outburst, he was bound to walk right into the middle of another roast if his sisters were around. He scurried up the stairs, threw open his door, and entered his inner sanctum. He was just about to close his door when Lucy appeared. "Lincoln?"

"Yeah?" he asked, tossing his backpack into a corner.

"Uh," she started, looking down. He turned, and when she looked up again, he noticed her face was red. "Can you listen to a poem I wrote today? I need your opinion."

"Sure," Lincoln said, flopping down onto the bed and kicking his shoes off. Lucy stood where she was for a few moments, her head bowed. He got the sense that she was trying build up the confidence to share her words with him. She was shy with her poetry, which Lincoln could get. Bearing your heart and soul isn't an easy thing to do, and he respected her for doing it.

"Come here," he said, patting the bed. "I really want to hear it."

She came over, her head still down, and sat on the edge of the bed. She laid her books down and turned, getting onto her knees and sitting on her legs. She opened one of the books, took a sheet of paper out, and looked at it for a minute. She took a deep breath and started to speak, but choked.

"Hey," he said softly, and she looked up at him. "Don't be shy. I want to hear it."

She nodded, cleared her throat, and read, her voice shaky:

" _My love is dark as night_

 _Like a bird in restless flight_.

 _I yearn for you_

 _My forbidden fruit_

 _The touch of you_

 _And the beat of your heart_

 _I crave the presence of your soul_

 _And to be beheld in your eyes_

 _Your queen_

 _Dark as night"_

She stopped and looked down at the paper, waiting.

Lincoln, his eyes wide, didn't know what to say. It was beautiful, really, though he wasn't one for poetry. It seemed a little heavier than her usual stuff, though.

"Wow," he heard himself saying. "That was really good. And poignant. Is it about a boy you like?"

Lucy nodded but did not look at him.

Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck. Suddenly it was awkward. Talking about liking someone period was awkward, but talking with your sibling about liking someone (or _them_ liking someone) was worse. What should he say?

"He's very lucky," was all he could think of.

"Yeah," Lucy said. She shoved the poem back into her book and got off, hurrying away, which made Lincoln feel bad; did he hurt her feelings somehow? He didn't _think_ he did, and if he did, he didn't mean to. Living with ten girls, it was frighteningly easy to hurt someone's feelings.

He got up and started to go to her, but Lynn appeared in the door, tossing a football up into the air and catching it. "Hey," she grinned, "it's Biggie _Smalls_."

Lincoln sighed and slammed the door in her face.

"Don't jack it _too_ hard," Lynn called out, "you might pluck it out!"

Rolling his eyes, Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed, then let himself fall back. He absolutely _did not_ want to show his face at dinner. He doubted they'd lit him up there, since their parents would be with them, but he'd see the malicious light dancing in their eyes and _know_ they were doing it in their heads and thinking they were so hilarious that they would seek him out and tell him their jokes before they forgot them. He sighed. Having five older sisters sucked sometimes.

In her room, Lucy sat on her bed and hugged herself, hating that she'd chickened out yet again. When he asked her if the poem was about a boy she liked, she was going to say _It's about you,_ but a lump formed in her throat and her traitorous lips were suddenly and miraculously glued together. Even if she could have spoken, she probably would have sounded stupid, because she wouldn't have been able to hear herself over the pounding of her own heart. In a rare display of emotion, she grabbed her pillow and screamed into it.

Why did this have to be so hard?

Why did she have to be so _weird_?

Sighing, she tossed her pillow aside and went to get up when she heard Lynn in the hall. Suddenly remembering her plan, Lucy got up and went into the hall just as Lynn disappeared into the bathroom. Being quick, she slunk into Luan's room and took something from the bottom drawer of her dresser. She stopped at Luna's dresser, then ducked back into her room and stopped at Lynn's. In the hall, she listened. The bathroom door was firmly closed. Lynn was probably "bombing the bowl" as she so eloquently put it. Lucy grinned. She was just putting the thing back when she heard the front door open and the rest of her siblings come in. She went back to her bed and sat down. Moments later, Lynn came in.

"Hey, Dorkula, how's it going?"

Lucy shrugged and struggled to not smile. "Alright."

Going over to her dresser, Lynn took out a pair of fresh underwear, stripped out of her shorts and dirty underwear (baring her butt shamelessly), and put the new pair on. All of her sisters had a strange (to Lucy) habit of changing into clean underwear when they got home from school.

Which worked to Lucy's advantage.

In his room, Lincoln finished the new Ace Savvy comic and listened to his sisters yelling and thumping in the hall. With Lucy, you could never hear her coming. With the others, you couldn't _not_ hear them. He sat the comic aside and was just starting to get up when a hesitant knock came at his door. Oh, great, who's _this_? Luan with small penis puns? Sighing, he got up, went to the door, and opened it.

Lucy stood before him. "Something's wrong with our sisters."

Lincoln looked over her head, and saw Lynn scraping her butt along the floor like a dog, her teeth bared. Leni stood by the bathroom door, her head down and her hands furiously digging at her crotch. Lori came out of the bathroom, holding her privates. Luna was humping a doorframe. No, not humping it, rubbing against it. Luan stood off to one side, holding a video camera and laughing.

"W-What's going on?" Lincoln asked, suddenly worried. His sisters could be bitches, but he still cared about them: He wasn't a monster.

"I don't know," Lucy said, brushing past him. She sat on the edge of his bed and kicked her legs. "But it probably has something to do with the itching powder I put in their underwear."

For a moment her words didn't register. When they did, Lincoln turned. "You did _what_?"

Still kicking her legs, Lucy shrugged. "I was tired of them making fun of us so I decided to get back at them."

For a second Lincoln didn't know what to do, then he laughed; he laughed so hard he fell against the door. Lucy giggled musically, something that Lincoln could never remember happening before.

"Wait until I tell you the best part," she said.

"What's that?" Lincoln asked, brushing a tear from his cheek.

"I didn't put any in Luan's, so they're going to blame her."

That set Lincoln off laughing again. He recovered just in time to see his sisters backing Luan into a corner. Luan looked scared, her hands raised in a placating gesture. Lynn led the pack, slapping the camera out of Luan's hand; it struck the floor, and Lori bent to grab it and, surprising Lincoln, flung it against the wall.

"Hey!" Luan cried.

"You're not uploading that video, you little shit," Lynn said, poking Luan in the forehead. "You went too far this time; my crotch feels like an anthill!"

"I didn't do it!" Luan wailed. "I swear!"

They looked like they were about to rip her apart, and Lincoln started to open his mouth to distract them, but then remembered what Luan said this morning. _What's that about a vagina?_

Thankfully, dad called up the stairs. "Dinner!"

Still looking angry, the others wheeled around and turned their backs on Luan, stalking away.

Lincoln turned to Lucy. "That...that was pretty awesome," he said admiringly.

Lucy smiled wide. "Thanks."

He patted her on the head, and her heart fluttered. She was so happy at this moment that she didn't want it to end.


	4. The House Next Door

Johnathan Carver woke on the evening of October 12 to a familiar scent. It was a dank, musky odor that he knew all too well.

And it made him angry.

 _Goddamn it, Straker._

Breathing through clenched teeth, he got up and went to the mirror. His reflection showed a hard, angular face with sunken cheeks. His eyes were red and his curly blonde hair tangled. He stayed up too late last night. That was his one perpetual vice. Some men drank, some smoked, John Carver stayed up late.

The smell wafted into his nostrils, and he got even angrier. He glanced at the window and saw a lighted window across a stockade fence. He walked over and peered out. He saw a young girl with short brown hair washing dishes. His fists clenched and his teeth grinded. He could already feel the desire rising within him, the dark, deadly pressure that had, in the past, led him to go too far, to get sloppy, to get himself run out of towns by angry mobs and chased through the wilderness by men with weapons. Flashing, he brought his fist down on the window sill with such force that it cracked. Damn it. Damn it. He sat on the edge of the bed and raked his long, slender fingers through the mess of his hair. When the door opened behind him, he stiffened.

"Ah, you're awake," Straker said. "Much later than I expected."

Carver looked over his shoulder to see Straker setting a silver platter on the credenza. A silver tea pot sat next to a mug with a floral scheme. Carver turned away and glared at the vague outline of his reflection in the glass.

"I imagine you're cross –"

"Yes, very."

"– but it's all that was available on such short notice." Straker poured a measure of liquid into the cup, came to Carver's side, and held it out. Carver took it without looking at the pathetic bastard and drank.

"In the entire Detroit metro area," Carver said, "this was the _only_ private residence for rent? There wasn't a ranch house? A cabin? A _trailer_?"

"This house met all of your specifications."

Carver flashed again, slamming his fist into his thigh and looking up at his partner with wide, crazy eyes.

"Finding accommodations, quickly, is not easy in America without a fair amount of money. And as you know, your fortune has been slowly dwindling..."

Carver got slowly to his feet, his 6 foot 10 inch frame towering over Straker. Carver leaned close, and Straker twitched almost imperceptibly. "I can't control myself," the tall man said in a strained whisper. "Not with... _them_ around." He bared his teeth.

"I'm sure you can contain..."

" _I can't!"_ Carver roared, pointing toward the window. "There's a house full of teenage girls ten feet from where I sleep, and you expect me to 'contain' myself?"

"I can always move your..."

"No," Carver said in that dangerous whisper, "that won't help. We're too close. Find another domicile. I don't care if it's a shack in the woods."

"Your things?"

"Burn them, smash them to bits, I frankly don't care anymore." Carver put his hands on his hips. "In case you've forgotten, they're after us. The name of the game, dear Richard, is hide-without-drawing-undue-attention-to-ourselves. Putting me into a situation where I will lose control is absolutely _not_ the way to win the game."

"I understand," Straker nodded. "I did what I could with what you required of me."

Carver sat down and handed his cup to Straker, who refilled it. "Please find somewhere else," Carver said. "I will waive my specifications. Find a double wide in the country. I don't care."

Straker nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And get my coat. I'm going out."

"Yes, sir."

After finishing his second cup, Carver got up and went downstairs. Straker was waiting in the foyer and helped Carver into his coat, a long, black wool affair with black buttons. "I need to clear my head," he told his servant. "Start house hunting immediately."

Straker nodded. "Yes, sir."

Grabbing a gold-tipped cane from a stand by the door, Carver went out into the chilly October night. He paused on the doorstep, flipped up his collar, and continued to the sidewalk. His plan was to go right, but his legs carried him left, as he knew they would. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but his head turned of its own violation, as he knew it would. The house was unassuming, white with dormers and a covered porch. Carver had seen a million of them. Toys, sports equipment, and trash littered the lawn. He spied a pink Power Wheel and a deflated basketball. He glanced up, and saw movement in the front windows, the faintest suggestion of a shadow. He drew a deep, shuddery breath and slowed his pace. They were close, and many.

Staying awake later was John Carver's perpetual vice. His other, infrequent vice, was young girls. It had always been so, even in his youth. Their life, their vitality, their vivaciousness...it was enough to drive a man mad, wasn't it? Even a man as refined as he.

Shaking his head, he pressed on into the cold night, eventually breaking free of the intoxicating perfume surrounding the house next door. Free and with a clear mind, he roamed the nighttime streets of Royal Woods, meeting only the occasional other walker. When he passed them, he nodded and smiled. As far as he wandered, though, he knew that he would eventually have to return to the house on Franklin Avenue, and he didn't trust himself to be there: He had learned long ago that he would lose his grip in the presence of so many girls. It had happened again and again over the years. Once, he went into a girl's group home in a town faraway and laid waste, extinguishing seven lives and taking one for his own. He kept her chained in a basement for close to three years before she mustered the resolve to rip her own throat out with her bare hands, so tired was she of her lot. Further back, there was an orphanage and state policemen tracking him through the forest. The details were fuzzy. It felt like it could have been a century ago.

 _Damn you, Straker_.

Before long, Carver found himself in a wide, wooded lot; he'd been so deep in thought that he'd walked right off the street and into the wilderness. It was a cemetery, he discovered when he nearly tripped over a headstone. Carver liked cemeteries. They were places of peace and tranquility. He looked down at the marker and read the inscription. JOHN KROG 1970-2003. Carver went to the next one. JAMES MURPHEY 1954-1991. The third: ERIC FREEMAN 1940-1979. Carver noticed a theme. They were all young. Relatively speaking. In this day and age a man can live to 90 and no one bats an eye.

He walked the rows, looking at headstones and contemplating the life and times of those interred. He was delaying the inevitable. He would have to return at some point. The longer he was away, the smaller the chance he would go off the rails.

Shortly, he came to a street bordering the cemetery and followed it, passing small houses huddled against the chill night. He caught the occasional flicker of blue TV light through darkened windows, and he wondered how people could content themselves with passively sitting in front of a screen and whiling away their time. Life was so short; blink and it's gone.

The majority of human beings are slack-jawed idiots who drift from one material possession to the next, from temporary indulgence to temporary indulgence. Their lives are pointless, without meaning, a candle flicker in the wind.

And they had no clue.

It was a depressing thought.

Hours later, in the soft blue light preceeding dawn, John Carver started for home. Humpf. Home. There's a laugh. Was there such a thing as 'home'? For him anyway?

There was not, he realized not for the first time. He was a tumbleweed, a drifter moving from town to town, never setting down roots, always on the run. Setting down roots was dangerous. When you set down roots, you opened yourself up to discovery.

Home was where he happened to sleep. Therefore, Franklin Avenue was home for now. But if he lost control...

* * *

Lucy brushed her teeth, spat into the sink, and smiled at herself in the mirror. That smile slowly died when she realized, for the first time, just how _pale_ she was. She didn't mind her complexion...but did Lincoln? Did it gross him out? She wanted to look pretty for him, but, come to think of it, she had absolutely no idea what he considered "pretty." Everyone had a different definition, didn't they? What is pretty to one is ugly to another. She knew he once (and still?) had a crush on a girl named Cristina, a snooty little thing with brown hair. Was it brown? Lucy didn't know. She'd only seen Miss Thang in passing in the halls. She struck Lucy as another Taylor Hogan. Haughty and too good for everyone else. Cristina's skin tone was normal. Maybe if she got some sun...

"Out," Lori said, coming into the bathroom, "I gotta pee."

Putting her toothbrush back in the holder, Lucy left the bathroom and went to her door, pausing to look at Lincoln's. It was closed, a crack of light showing under the bottom. She wondered what he was doing in there. Reading a comic book? Playing a video game? Would he let her in if she asked? Would he let her curl up on his bed and follow along as he charted the adventures of Ace Savvy?

Sighing sadly, she went into her room and dropped onto her bed. Lynn was lying in her bed and watching sports highlights on her phone. A clandestinely acquired bag of frozen mixed vegetables was pressed against her crotch. Lucy smiled as she remembered the looks on their faces when the itching started. _That moment when they realized they were doomed_. No one was speaking to Luan; the last time Lucy saw her, she was sitting at her desk trying to repair the shattered remains of her camcorder. Lucy felt a little bad about it getting broken, but hey, chuckles should have thought about that before she picked on Lincoln until he threw his breakfast against the wall (a mess she, Lucy, hurriedly cleaned).

Presently, Lynn threw her head back against her pillow and moaned. "Itching powder sucks." She turned to look at Lucy.

"Does it still itch?"

"No," Lynn said, "it _burns_."

 _Oh?_

"Is it supposed to burn?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" She rubbed the bag against herself and hissed. "I should have knocked her out."

"That's a harsh way to react."

"You wouldn't be saying that if it was _your_ vag burning up. You're lucky."

Lucy shrugged. "I don't wear thirty pairs of underwear a day." To keep up appearances, she dumped her underwear into a laundry basket and handed it to Luan, who, the sisters had decided, would be responsible for washing everyone's unmentionables. After all, she's the one who put itching powder in them.

"Because you're gross," Lynn said. "You probably smell like a tuna factory."

"You're the one who's constantly playing sports and sweating. You probably smell like the inside of a locker room toilet."

That shocked Lynn into a laugh. "Wow, sis, that was good." She tossed the bag onto Lucy's bed. "Why don't you sniff it and see if you're right?"

Using her index finger and thumb, Lucy picked up the bag and dropped it to the floor. "Uh, no."

In his room, Lincoln set his alarm, turned out his lamp, and snuggled under the covers. His mind went back to Lynn scooting across the floor like a dog, and he laughed. Good one, Luce. He was surprised (and a little taken aback) to find himself remembering her melodious giggle and the way she kicked her legs back and forth as she told him about her deeds, and thinking it was cute...


	5. Islands in the Stream

"Come on, guys, please?"

They were at the dining room table. No one was speaking, save for Lola and Lana, who bickered over something having to do with one of Lana's many reptiles. Luan looked strickenly from one sister to another. "I swear, it wasn't me."

"Can it," Lynn said, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. As far as Lucy knew, it was the first time any of her sisters had spoken to Luan since the previous afternoon.

"I swear to God, I didn't do it." She looked at Lincoln. "You'll talk to me, right?"

"Since me and my little penis were totally and entirely itch free last night, yeah, sure," Lincoln said.

"You know Luan," Lori said, "she puts the _itch_ in _bitch_."

"I was _itching_ to knock her out," Lynn said sullenly.

"Thankfully you didn't," Lucy said, "or you guys would have to start your relationship over from _scratch_."

Everyone laughed except Luan, who looked miserable. Lincoln felt bad for her, though he wouldn't lie: It was nice to see one of them getting a heaping helping of humble pie. "I didn't do it."

No one acknowledged her.

"Lincoln," she said, her eyes pleading, "tell them I didn't."

"Tell them you did it?"

"No!"

"She confessed, Linc?" Lynn asked.

"Sounded like it."

"No!"

"The fact that you were videotaping the after effects suggests to me that you did," Lisa said. She had been spared, so was not inclined to ignore her older sister. "It also suggests that you have voyeuristic tendencies and possible daddy issues."

"Shut up!" Luan snapped.

"And the fact that you are so broken up over our siblings' refusal to talk to you indicates a deep-seeded need for attention and approval."

Lynn snickered. "If she wanted approval she'd smarten up and tell jokes that don't suck."

" _Screw you!"_ Luan jumped up and stormed out in a huff, slamming the door behind her, taking much the same route that Lincoln had the day before. Lincoln watched her go, and glanced at Lucy, whose expression was inscrutable. Maybe this was going a little too far. He didn't expect Lucy to come clean, though; they'd rip her to shreds. Once, Lincoln took the blame for Lucy clogging the toilet with a girly pony comic so they wouldn't make fun of her. He very briefly entertained the idea of taking the heat this go around too, but decided against it. He loved Luan and felt for her, but he wasn't about to throw himself to the wolves. They'd rip him to shreds. But not metaphorically. _Literally_. Lynn held herself back from hitting Luan, she wouldn't do the same with him.

Sighing, Lincoln got up. He had to do _something_.

He found Luan sitting on the porch, breathing heavily. She looked over her shoulder and glared at him. "Go away, Lincoln," she said.

"Look," he said, sitting next to her, "I'm sorry for making fun of you in there. In my defense, you did the same to me yesterday."

"That was different."

"How?"

"We were just messing with you. Everyone wasn't mad at you over something you didn't do."

Lincoln sighed. "Yeah, true, but it still didn't feel good."

Luan looked at him, then away. "I'm sorry I made fun of you, too."

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "It'll blow over. It always does."

"It can't happen soon enough. I don't like when everyone ignores me like this. Lisa was kind of right. I _do_ need attention."

"I know," he said, and hugged, "for now I'll give you your attention. Got any good jokes?"

She brightened. "Oh, boy, do I!"

Lucy watched through the front window with a swelling as Luan cracked a joke, and she and Lincoln laughed. Desiring forbidden fruit in of itself was nice, but it was better when that fruit was as sweet as her brother; he was such a caring, considerate boy. She sighed and looked away, feeling bad. It was her mess he was out there cleaning up, showing grace and dignity where she had showed a thirst for petty revenge. Her stomach turned and she dropped onto the armchair. He was too good for her, a saint to her sinner. God, what must he think of her? Probably that she was an awful human being.

 _Great. You made a complete ass of yourself in front of Lincoln. Do you_ want _to ruin this?_

No, she didn't. She wanted him to hold her hand and stare into her eyes with the same love and devotion that she felt for him. She wanted it so badly that she ached.

 _You have a funny way of going about getting it._

Yeah, well, she wasn't trying to have a funny way. She was trying her best. Unfortunately her best involved a lot more crashing and burning than she liked.

Oh well. You can always come back from a crash and burn. You just had to work a little harder. Getting up, she grabbed her books off the end table and went outside. Lincoln and Luan had already left, and Lucy refrained from rushing after them. As punishment for what she did, she denied herself the privilege of walking to school with him. She descended the stairs and started down the sidewalk, hugging her books as a stiff breeze buffeted her. As she passed the house next door, she looked up and saw Mr. Straker hanging a potted plant from his porch ceiling. He was wearing a suit, tie, and hat...which struck Lucy as odd attire for light gardening. He looked up, saw her, and smiled. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she said.

There was something about him she didn't like. His smile was too wide, too strained. His face was...hard? Was that the right word? It certainly _looked_ hard, like you could crack a baseball bat across it and he'd just smile. Oh, and speaking of smiling: His smile didn't touch his eyes. She noticed that yesterday when she and Lincoln first met him. His eyes were dark and cold, and while his lips smiled, his eyes did not.

Lucy shivered as she passed by. She could feel his eyes boring into her back, and had to resist the urge to look over her shoulder.

At the end of the street, she turned left, and spotted Lincoln and Luan way ahead. She slackened her speed so that she wouldn't catch up to them, and sighed. She wanted to be next to him, and not being next to him was torture. It was her fault, though.

She sat through her classes with a hollow feeling in her stomach. She was aware of Taylor Hogan and her stupid friends talking about her, but she didn't register what they were saying, nor did she care to; she had better things to worry about than the inane commentary of a couple fourth grade airheads.

Like how she could prove to her brother that she was worthy of being loved.

* * *

Lynn Loud Sr. put on his jacket and left the house shortly before noon. The sun was shining and the sky was a clear, cloudless blue. While it looked warm from inside, it was actually cold, the wind biting. In the short time it took him to cross into the neighbor's yard, mount the stairs, and knock, his face went numb and his hands turned to ice.

He would have come over sooner, but between work and raising eleven children, he was too darn tired. Today, his only day off for the week, he'd planned to do little more than sit in front of the TV and play with Lilly...then he remembered he hadn't welcomed his new neighbor to the block. When Lilly went down for her nap, he turned on the baby monitor, stuck it in his pants pocket, and resolved to unfurl the welcome mat before the lethargy took hold.

In the fifteen years that he had lived on Franklin Avenue, Lynn had made it his mission to welcome each new face. He did it out of gratitude. When he, Rita, and the older kids moved in, Mr. Avis from down the corner (dead almost nine years now) came over and welcomed them to the neighborhood. It was a small gesture, but one that Lynn appreciated immensely, especially since they were new to town, and unsettled.

Presently, Lynn knocked on the door again. Another gust of wind washed over him, and he shuddered. It didn't look like anyone was here. He was just starting to turn away when the door opened and a broad man in a black suit appeared. At a guess, he was fifty-five, his hair and mustache gray with fading streaks of black. His face was heard and leathery, and when he smiled, Lynn felt inexplicably uneasy.

"Hello," the man said, his accent vaguely British.

"Hi there," Lynn said, "I'm Lynn Loud from next door, I thought I'd just come over and welcome you to the neighborhood."

The man's eyes brightened. "Ah, thank you, Mr. Loud. I'm Richard Straker. It's a pleasure to meet you." He stuck out his hand, and Lynn took it. Straker's grasp was firm and dry.

"You too," Lynn said. "I'm surprised the house went so quickly. It's only been vacant two weeks."

"I was fortunate enough to be among the first to view it," Straker said. "It's a lovely house."

"It is," Lynn said. "The Bensons remodeled it...oh, gosh, five years ago. I saw it when it was finished. It was really something."

"It is indeed."

"Do you live alone?"

"No," Straker said, "my nephew lives with me. He's currently away on business. He deals in antiques."

Lynn raised an eyebrow. "Really? I _love_ antiquing. I take my kids every so often, but they don't enjoy it very much." Lynn chuckled.

"I believe I met two of your children yesterday," Straker said, then looked up in an expression of contemplation. "Lincoln and Lucy?"

"Yep, they're mine. Well, two of mine."

"How many are there?"

"Eleven."

Straker's eyes widened slightly. It was something Lynn was so used to that he didn't even notice.

"That's quite the household."

"Yeah, it wears you out, but I love them."

"Indeed. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Loud, I have some important business to attend to. I hate to be rude..."

"Not at all," Lynn said, waving a hand. "I know how it is, getting settled and all. If you need anything I'm right next door."

"Thank you, Mr. Loud, I appreciate it."

Lynn nodded and left. Straker looked after him, his eyes narrow.

 _That man,_ Lynn decided, _is strange..._

* * *

Lucy was surprised to find Lincoln waiting for her when school let out. He looked up when she came through the door, and she felt a smile spreading across her face. "Hey, Lincoln," she said.

"Hey," he replied with a grin of his own, "I missed you this morning."

They started walking. Kids streamed around them, flooding the sidewalk and crossing the street. "You were gone by the time I got outside."

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he said, "I was trying to cheer Luan up. She's really down because everyone's blaming her."

Lucy nodded, unable to bring herself to look at her brother; she didn't think she could stand to see the disappointment that must be in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she blurted.

"What?"

"I'm sorry I did it. I feel bad."

"Well," Lincoln said, "it's done."

Tears started to well in Lucy's eyes. Surprising herself, she turned and threw her arms around Lincoln. "I'm sorry. You must hate me."

At first, Lincoln stiffened, and she didn't blame him. She was a piece of shit. She wouldn't want her to touch her either. Then he relaxed and hugged her back. "Lucy," he said, a bit bemused, "it's okay, really. I mean...they _did_ deserve it."

"I just don't want you to think I'm terrible."

"I don't think you're terrible," Lincoln said honestly. He tilted her head back. "I think you're great." He smiled, not understanding why his heart was beginning to pound. It occurred to him to kiss her, and he recoiled at the thought. Though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, it also kind of excited him.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," he said.

She grinned. "Thank you." She hugged him again, resting her head against his chest, and he hugged her back: They stood there in the middle of the sidewalk on a steely autumn afternoon, leaves dancing around them, a brother and sister in a loving embrace. It was in that moment, Lucy would think later, that she truly fell in love with Lincoln. In that moment, Lincoln had no thoughts: He simply held his sister close, his heart pounding against her warm being. If he did have a thought, it was that he didn't want this moment to end, for he knew that it was special.

Neither one of them noticed the black Cadillac passing slowly by.

* * *

 _Ugh_ , Taylor Hogan thought as she followed Allen Street north, _this is_ so _not what I need right now._

She was holding her phone. On the screen was a text from her mother asking her to pick her little brother up from daycare because she had to work late. _Boo-hoo-hoo. We all have problems._

Taylor had much better things to do than picking up (and babysitting!) her stupid, snotty little brother, like going to the mall with her friends. _Guess_ that's _not going to happen._ She sighed. Why did her mother do this to her? Always 'Taylor, do this, Taylor, do that.' Sometimes she hated her mother; the rest of the time she simply tolerated her. As for her brother...she _always_ hated him. She remembered when her mother first told her she was pregnant: Taylor hoped she miscarried because she didn't want to share anything with a shitty, pissy, drooling little slug. After he was born, she would hope he'd fall and break his head. When they rode in the car, she would pinch his arms and pull his hair, the sight of his stupid little face making her so mad she could barely contain herself. It wasn't fair.

Taylor replied 'k' and hit SEND.

Did anyone really like their siblings? She thought back to that creepy little dork Lucy hugging her ugly, buck-tooth freak she called a brother. Taylor saw them as she left school, and rolled her eyes. They were a weird family. Her friend Victoria's sister was friends with Lynn, and she said their house stank and they were always up each other's' butts. Victoria said they probably had sex with each other and used the same bath water, and Taylor could believe it.

Weirdos.

Taylor texted Ashely that she couldn't go to the mall because she had to watch her retarded little brother. She didn't notice the black Cadillac pass by, didn't see it park at the end of the street, didn't see the man getting out. This section of Allen ran along the western edge of the park. The entire left side of the road was wooded. On the right, the houses were few and far between. It was an isolated location.

She was replying to Ashley when she heard a man's posh voice. "Excuse me, Miss?" She looked up to see an old fart in a black suit standing next to the open door of a big black car like you saw in the old movies. "Can you help me?"

"No," she said pointedly, and passed by. When the man grabbed her, she yelled, but a strong hand clamped over her mouth. When the barrel of a gun pressed against her cheek, her eyes widened and her blood ran cold.

"Do as I say and you won't be harmed," the man said. He tossed a hurried glance around, then dragged her into the car, shoving her into the passenger seat. Without taking the gun off of her, he produced a pair of handcuffs and slapped one end onto one of her wrists. She couldn't resist, couldn't cooperate, could only sit there, trembling.

When her hands were bound, he jerked the gun toward the floor. "Get down there."

Moving jerkily, she obeyed, and the man threw a blanket over her. "If you move I will shoot you. If you speak or cry out, I will shoot you. Do you understand me?"

Taylor couldn't speak.

" _Do you understand me?"_

"Yes," she finally forced.

"Good."

He slammed the door, put the car into drive, and took off.

No one had seen Richard Straker abduct Taylor Hogan.


	6. A Quiet Night at Home

Lincoln was sitting on the couch between Luna and Leni and staring at a TV show he didn't like when the front door opened and Lynn staggered in, covered in mud, her shirt tattered and torn. Lincoln was the first to look away from the television, and when he saw her, his heart jumped into his throat. "Oh, my God, are you okay?"

Lori glanced over as Lynn sat heavily in the chair by the door. "I've seen worse," she said, turning back to her show.

Lincoln got up and went to his older sister. Her face was cut and streaked with mud. She lifted one of her legs and hissed through clenched teeth, letting it drop. "I wrecked my bike," she said. "My ankle hurts."

Lincoln knelt and rolled her sock down: An ugly purple bruise spread across her skin. He gingerly touched it, and Lynn gasped. "Ow, stop!"

"I think it's sprained," Lincoln said, glancing into the living room. Leni was enthralled in the show; Lori rested the side of her face against her hand, looking totally disinterested. "I said..."

"I heard what you said," Lori snapped. "It's sprained. Again. Do you expect me to lose my mind every time Tony Romo over there comes home with a boo-boo? That's what you get when you think you're a three hundred pound linebacker but you're a little girl who weighs a hundred soaking wet."

"Hey, screw you," Lynn said.

"Learn to take a bump," Lori said, "you'll fail at sports if you can't dump your bike without making a big production over a bruise."

"How about I make a big production out of your face?" Lynn said, balling her fist and trying to stand.

"Knock it off!" Lincoln shouted. He put his hand on the top of Lynn's head and drove her back onto her butt. "Stay here. Since none of our sisters care, _I'll_ go get the icepack."

"You can go get bent, too," Lori said.

" _Someone's_ on her period," Lincoln said, "or else she's just a bitch."

Lori kicked him as he passed.

"Like, could you stop?" Leni asked. "I'm trying to watch the show."

"Me too, but Snow White and The Amazing Benchwarmer keep making too much noise."

Lynn bent down, picked up one of Lola's heels, and chucked it at Lori; it hit the side of the couch, making her sister jump. "Damn it, Lynn!"

"What's going on out here?" mom asked, coming out of her office.

"Lynn threw a shoe at me," Lori said.

"Lori's PMSing hard," Lynn said, "she's about to catch a fist to the lip."

In the kitchen, Lincoln rummaged in the freezer for the icepack, finding it at the very back, tucked behind a bag of chicken thighs.

"Both of you, stop it!" mom spat. "If I hear any more of this, you're both grounded."

"Mom!" Lynn said.

"I said no more, and I mean it."

Back in the living room, Lincoln knelt next to Lynn, yanked her shoe off, and then her sock. She hissed. "Damn it! Can you be more gentle?"

"Sorry," he said, wrapping the icepack around her ankle. "I'll get you some aspirin." He went up the stairs, passing Luan and Luna's room (Luna was playing her guitar and Luan was playing with her dummy, Mr. Coconuts), and Lynn and Lucy's room (Lucy was sitting on her bed, furiously scribbling in her notebook, so focused that she didn't notice him passing by. In the bathroom, he searched the medicine cabinet. There were so many bottles, jars, tubes, and boxes that they spilled out into the sink when he simply looked at them. He found a bottle of aspirin and shook a few into his hand. He went back into the hall, and was surprised to see Lynn at the top of the stairs, leaning heavily against the bannister.

"Lynn! You shouldn't be..."

"Can it and help me to my room, will you?"

Lincoln rushed over, hooked his arm under her shoulder, and helped her to her bed, where she sat heavily with a pained inhalation of air. Lucy glanced up. "What happened?"

"Lynn wrecked her bike."

"Oh," Lucy said. "Again?"

"Yes, again!" Lynn said shortly.

Lincoln handed her the aspirin. "Let me get you a glass of water."

"Don't worry about it," she said, popping the pills and dry swallowing them. "Thanks."

"You need anything else?"

"Nah," Lynn said, swinging her legs onto the bed and wincing. "Just some rest."

"Alright," Lincoln said, getting up. "If you need anything, let me know."

"Alright, thanks."

In the hall, Lincoln figured that since he was already up here, he might as well play a video game. Twenty minutes later, mom called up the stairs to say that dinner was ready. He turned the TV off (level 25 could wait) and started down the stairs behind Luna when he remembered. Oh, right, one of my sisters is all messed up. He turned, went back up the stairs, passing Lucy on the way (she favored him with a little grin, and he grinned back), and paused in Lynn's doorway. She was lying on her back with her foot propped up on a pillow, her phone in her hands. When she saw him, she said, "What's up?"

"It's dinner," he said, "do you need help?"

Pfft, I'm not going down there," she said. "My ankle hurts like a bitch."

"Oh. Okay. I can bring you a plate..."

"It doesn't matter," she said, "I'm not really hungry anyway."

"Alright," Lincoln said, and started to leave, but she stopped him.

"Linc?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"No," she said, her face earnest, "I mean it. You're a great brother."

"Thank you."

In the dining room, everyone was already eating. The only open spot was next to Lucy. When he walked up, he noticed her textbook sitting in it. She saw him, picked it up, and sat it in her lap. "I saved you a seat."

"Thanks," Lincoln said, sitting down.

"How's Lynn?" mom asked.

"Alright, just a little bruised."

"What happened?" dad asked.

"I guess she wrecked her bike."

"Well, how's the bike?"

Before Lincoln could stop himself, he said, "Gee, let me just look through the wall and _see_."

"Don't be a smart aleck, Lincoln," mom said.

He glanced over at Lucy, who was hiding a small smile behind her hand. Seeing her smile was rare (like hearing her laugh), and Lincoln had never realized how cute she was when she did. He considered firing out another smartass retort, but for one, he couldn't think of one, and for two, he really didn't want to get yelled at and/or grounded.

"I met our new neighbor today," dad said casually.

"Oh?" mom asked. "How are they?"

"He's a little strange."

"He always wears a suit," Lincoln said.

"Well, lots of people do that," mom said.

"He's creepy," Lucy added.

"I'm sure..." mom started, but dad cut her off.

"No, no, he _is_ a little...unsettling. Very intense eyes. He must be rich. He looks like it."

"I'm glad someone in this neighborhood has some money," Luna said.

"You have birthday money," mom said.

"Nah, I spent it."

Mom raised an eyebrow. "On what?"

"Itch relief medicine?" Lincoln asked, and Lucy choked on her milk.

"No," Luna said, shooting him an annoyed glance.

"I saw it," Lucy said, "a whole case of _Vagisil_."

"Lucy..." mom cautioned.

"You two can take a flying leap. I spent it on concert tickets."

"You go to too many concerts," mom said.

"Hey, it's my thing."

They all ate in silence for a while. "Oh, Lana broke the knob on our door," Lola said.

Lana threw her hands up. "You said you wouldn't tell!"

"I changed my mind."

"How did you break it?" dad asked.

Lana started to speak, but Lola said, "She locked the door but didn't know she locked it so when she went to go open it and it wouldn't open she got mad and hit it."

Lana shot her twin a withering look. "I know where you sleep," she said through her teeth.

"It's fine, it's fine," dad said, "I'll fix it tomorrow."

When Lincoln was finished, he asked to be excused, checking on Lynn before he went to his room: She was lying on her stomach and snoring, a ribbon of drool falling from her lips. Ugh.

In his room, he turned the TV back on and waited for his game to reload.

"Hey."

Lincoln jumped. Lucy was standing in the doorway, her hands behind her back. She twisted restlessly back and forth, her hair swishing left and right.

Catching his breath, Lincoln said, "You're _really_ good at scaring people. You really are."

"Thanks. So...what are you doing?"

"Uh, just about to play a video game."

"Can I play?"

Lincoln blinked. Lucy wasn't one for video games. Like, at all. Most kids like video games, even if they aren't over the moon for them. Lucy, on the other, had never shown the slightest interest.

"Sure," he said, realizing that he was kind of happy she wanted to play with him.

"Cool." She sat down in the bed next to him and he handed her a controller. "What's this button do?" she asked, pressing a red circle.

"Well, in the game we're about to play, it shoots."

"Wicked. What's this button do?" she asked, pressing a blue triangle.

"It makes your character run."

"Ah."

The game loaded, and on the screen, two armor clad space rangers stood side-by-side on the dusty surface of an alien planet.

"So we're in space?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, in the year 2525."

"Oh. Cool."

She pressed the blue triangle, and her character (the one on the right, good to know; she honestly couldn't tell the difference) sprinted forward.

"Lucy!" Lincoln cried. "Wait!"

In the game, a giant tentacle shot out of the sand, grabbed Lucy's avatar, and dragged them screaming into the abyss.

"Whoa," she said. "That was cool."

"You have to wait until the spaceships start bombing the dunes before you move."

"Got it."

The game restarted. Hers and Lincoln's characters were standing there. Lucy was curious. She turned her avatar left and ran out into the sand.

" _Lucy, what are you doing?"_

A giant spike shot through her character's chest, and they went flying back, screaming and bleeding.

"That's the greatest thing I've ever seen."

"Lucy," sighed, "stop getting yourself killed. You're compromising the entire mission. If we don't make it past this stage, earth will be swallowed by a black hole."

"Okay," Lucy said. "I understand."

"Good," Lincoln said. The game restarted.

Stifling a devilish grin, Lucy sent her character forward just enough to allow her to turn around and open fire on Lincoln's. Blood splattered the screen and Lincoln looked at her, his expression stern and severe. She giggled, and he sighed. "Alright," he said, "if it's going to be like that."

When the game started next, Lincoln's character grabbed Lucy's and threw them into the dunes. Before it hit the ground, a giant shark popped up and snatched them out of the air.

The next go around, Lucy pressed a random button and nothing seemed to happen. Lincoln was just starting to gloat when an explosion killed both of them. "You dropped a grenade," he said.

The _next_ time, Lincoln's character spun on Lucy's and buried a knife in its throat. "That was brutal," Lucy said, "I have no words."

Lincoln took the game out and put another in. "Watch this."

Two more characters appeared on screen, standing side-by-side in what looked like a warehouse. Lincoln hurriedly mashed buttons, his avatar turning left, right, up, down, left, left, right, then left again. A chainsaw appeared in his hands, and before Lucy could react, her guy was on his knees, his head being sawn in half. When the game restarted, she hit a square button, and her character kicked Lincoln's in the face. He retaliated by delivering an uppercut that sent her guy flying and screaming.

"Video games are so cool," she breathed.

"I've been telling you for years," he said, nudging her side with his elbow.

"I regret not listening."

Lincoln didn't think he could have as much fun playing video games as he did playing with his little sister that night. When bed time came, he didn't want her to go.


	7. Shadow in the Night

She came awake in darkness, her mind foggy and he neck aching. She tried to open her eyes, but they were glued shut, which was just as well; she could feel herself slipping over the edge of consciousness again, and for a while she drifted, weightless, free from the pain and terror. She was wrenched back, however, when light bathed her face. She opened her eyes, and the world was a bleary smear. She blinked, and the scene swam into focus: She was in what looked like a cellar, the wall ahead of her rough, unfinished stone. The floor was dirt, and dusty boxes were stacked haphazardly next to a bookshelf. The light came from a bare bulb hanging overhead.

Heart racing, she tried to move her right arm, and found that it was chained to the wall. She looked around, and saw that she was sitting on a concrete pad. A strange creaking noise filled her ears, and she turned to see a shadow descending a set of stairs. He stepped into the light, and with a gasp, Taylor Hogan recognized him as the man who had kidnapped her earlier. He carried a black leather bag. He had taken off his suit coat, revealing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his hairy forearms. His tie was loosened.

"Ah, you're awake," he said with evident. He knelt on the edge of the slab and sat his bag down, opening it and reaching inside. Taylor drew away, pressing herself against the wall. He looked up, and smiled. "Don't be frightened. I won't hurt you."

He took a coiled, clear plastic tube from the bag and then inserted it into a strange machine Taylor hadn't noticed sitting next to the platform.

"Now," the man said, "I'm going to require your utmost cooperation to avoid injury. Can you do that for me?"

Taylor watched him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her heart pounded.

The man took something from the bag and attached it to the free end of the tube. When the light glinted on the thin metallic point, her eyes widened. "I know this must be...overwhelming, but rest assured you are in capable hands." He looked at her and smiled. His eyes were scary. Dead. Soulless. "I'm a doctor."

Taylor shivered.

The man pulled a small package from the bag and ripped it open. He took out a small swab and grabbed her free wrist, drawing it to him. He rubbed a spot on her arm with it (her skin tingled, what was he doing?!). He then wrapped a band around her arm and yanked it tight. When he brought the needle tube forward, she pulled away. "Don't do that," he said, crushing her wrist in an iron grip. When the needle pierced her skin, she hissed. Blood flowed from her, filling a small plastic vial.

She started to cry.

"Oh, no," the man said lowly, "child. I'm just taking a little. For...a test. That's all. When it's over, you can have something to eat. Would you like a cookie?"

Taylor shook her head. "N-No. I want to go home."

"Soon," the man said, checking the tube. It had turned red as blood was drawn into the machine. "Soon, you can go home."

* * *

Night fell over Royal Woods, the sun sinking behind the horizon, the crimson sky cooling to soft purple. A cold wind sprang up, kicking leaves along the yards and sidewalks flanking Franklin Avenue. John Carver watched the last color drain from the heavens, and noticed the North Star shining brightly. He was sitting by his bedroom window, not an optimal spot for star gazing, a habit he had developed over the years, but that wasn't the reason he had chosen this position, and he knew it.

In the next yard over, a girl with short blonde hair dropped a black trash bag into a metal trashcan, a look of annoyance on her face. Carver leaned forward, his hands (clasped on his knees) beginning to tremble. Images filled his head, and he began to shake. It was happening. It was happening just like he knew it would. He turned away from the window, but while he could escape seeing them, he could not escape _feeling_ them, _smelling_ them. He got up and started pace, running his hands through his hair and fighting to breath rather than pant. Why did he have to be this way? Why did he have to be so damned _infatuated?_ Why couldn't the torturous obsession leave him be? He wondered if others felt as he did about a certain class. Red-heads, brunettes, men, the elderly. He'd never met another of his refinement, one who possessed the same intellect and class. For some shameful reason, his offspring were mindless and feral. Oh, he enjoyed making them, though. There was nothing quite as exhilarating as breeding new life.

He realized he hadn't done that in a long time, but suddenly he wanted to very badly.

Damn it! Losing control! Producing children was the first step in getting sloppy. Children bred other children, and grandchildren bred great-grandchildren. Eventually, someone would notice, and it would happen again; they would come for him, and he would have to flee.

But...but, God...it was worth it.

 _No, no it's not!_

Carver returned to the window, splayed his hands on the window sill, and leaned forward, his nose touching the glass. The yard was empty. The kitchen window was dark. Light shone in what he took to be the living room window, but it was covered, and he couldn't see in. Bitter disappointment filled him. He continued watching, hoping for even the smallest glimpse, but none came, and he collapsed into his chair, crossing his legs and drumming his fingers on his thigh, his chin resting in his other hand. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He crossed his arms. The door opened, and Straker entered, bearing a sliver serving tray with morning tea.

Carver didn't speak and his manservant brought him a cup. Carver took it and lifted it to his lips; warmth spread through him. "It's fresh," he remarked.

"Yes," Straker said.

Carver finished it and handed the cup back to Straker.

"Another?"

"Yes."

Straker refilled the cup and handed it to him.

"The girl..." Carver said, "...is she still alive?"

"Yes," Straker said.

Carver sighed, hating himself for the thoughts racing through his head, hating that he was unable to control himself. "I want to see her."

Straker started to speak, but stopped and simply nodded. "Yes, sir. When?"

"Shortly," Carver replied, taking a sip.

"Very well," Straker said. "You plan to go out afterwards, I assume?"

Carver nodded. He was planning to go out, but he wasn't planning on going far.

* * *

The door opened and light stung her eyes. She was loopy from blood loss, so weak she could barely make a fist. Had she been asleep? She didn't know: The dark in the basement was the same as the dark behind her eyelids. How long had it been since the doctor saw her? Two hours? Two years?

The stairs creaked, creaked, then muffled footfalls traced through the dirt. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up: A dark form towered into forever, and she blinked, too weak even to be scared.

 _I am releasing you_. The man's voice was smooth and toneless. Had he really spoken, or was she imagining it.

"...please..."

He knelt, and she saw his face: His skin was fair and silky, his eyes blue, his head topped with a mess of blonde curly hair. He touched her face, and she started to sink into the darkness. Needlepoints pierced her, and she dozed. When she opened her eyes next, he was drawing a jagged nail along his wrist, blood bubbling forth. "Drink," he said, "this is my blood."

He pressed his bleeding wrist to her lips, and the hot taste of pennies filled her mouth. She trashed her head, but was too weak to break free. Then, as warmth spread through her, she began to suckle like a kitten, making small mewling sounds in the back of her throat. The man sighed and trembled.

Full, she drifted into sleep.

"Dump her on the street," Carver said to Straker, a tremor in his normally unaffected voice. "But not _this_ street."

* * *

"Hey, Luna, wanna hear a joke?"

Luan looked up from her laptop. Luna was sitting on her bed with her guitar, strumming and pointedly looking ahead. Luan knew she heard her.

This was getting ridiculous. It had been over twenty-four hours, and her sisters _still_ weren't talking to her. "I told you I didn't do it," Luan said.

Luna pursed her lips and nodded as if to say _sure, whatever, dude._

"I'm being 100 percent honest right now, Luna."

"Who did it then?" Luna asked, turning.

"I don't know," Luan said. When she got home yesterday afternoon, the only people in the house were her parents, Lincoln, Lucy, and Lynn. Her parents were automatically beyond reproach, Lynn was an unlikely suspect, as she was itching right along with the rest of them (though it could have been an act, or she could have given herself a dose to avoid suspicion), Lincoln _probably_ didn't do it (he was too sweet to do something like that, though they all _did_ ride him pretty hard that morning), and Lucy...well, pranks weren't really Lucy's forte. Of course, no one said it happened yesterday afternoon: Someone could have gotten into her itching powder while she was asleep the night before. In that case, it could be _anybody_.

Luna shook her head. "You were the one filming it and laughing your ass off. Who else are we supposed to believe did it?"

"I thought it was funny! I didn't actually _do_ it!"

"Whatever," Luna said, and turned coldly away.

Tears flooded Luan's eyes. "Please stop ignoring me."

Luna glanced at her and sighed. "Alright. I'll stop ignoring you. I still think you did it, though."

"I swear on mom and dad's lives I didn't."

Luna searched her sister's face for signs of deception, but saw none. She wasn't a particularly good liar anyway, though she _did_ go overboard with her pranks sometimes. She was lucky no one knocked her out last April Fool's Day with the shit she pulled. Luna came close, and if you made _her_ want to break your jaw, you know you went too far.

"Okay," Luna said, "you didn't do it. But who did?"

"I don't know. It could be anyone. I was thinking Lucy or Lincoln. I don't think Lincoln would go that far though, even if we _did_ pick on him really bad."

"Yeah," Luna said. She felt kind of bad about her part in taunting Lincoln the other day. It was funny when it was happening, and even funnier when he knocked his bowl off the table and stormed away, but after it was over and she meditated on it, she realized how messed up it was.

"And Lucy...she's not into humor. I don't even think she _can_ laugh."

"Who else could it be?"

"I don't know," Luan sighed frustratedly. "I don't even know when it happened. It could be anyone."

Luna shrugged. "I dunno. I'm not Sherlock Holms. All I know is someone made my junk itch like a bastard and I'm not happy about it."

"And whoever did it didn't do it to me so I'd take the fall," Luan said. "I'm not happy about that. Or my camcorder getting broken."

"Now _that_ was totally on you," Luna said.

"I wasn't going to post it without your permission."

"Just having it over there in your weird little vault is bad enough. If you're that upset no one's talking to you, why don't you call a meeting or something? Or just suck it up and wait for it to blow over."

"I don't _want_ to wait. Everyone's pissed off at me."

Luna shrugged. "I can't help you then. Sorry."

Luan sighed and shut down her laptop. "I guess I'll just sleep on it."

Luna nodded. "Good idea. Get some rest." Luna got up, sat her guitar in its rack, and then came back to bed. She put her headphones on and turned out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Luan got under the covers and snuggled into a comfortable position. Maybe Luna was right. Maybe she _should_ call a meeting. She was needy when it came to attention, she knew that (in a family with ten other kids, you were practically a number). She didn't like everyone being mad at her and ignoring her. If she had to beg and cry in front of all of her siblings, then that's what she would do. Sure, it would be a little humiliating, but _that_ she could deal with. Being isolated from the rest of her family, on the other hand...

Sighing, Luan rolled onto her back and pushed that thought from her mind. Soon, she was asleep, her breathing slow and rhythmic. The moon sailed across the sky, and a beam fell through the window between hers and Luna's bed, lying across the floor like a silvery puddle. Sometime after two in the morning, a shadow crossed the beam. At first it was indistinct, a formless black mass. Then, slowly, as the source approached, it took the shape of a man.

A hand reached up and picked at the lock. It turned. The sash lifted. The man crawled into the room and hunched next to the nightstand. He listened for any sounds, and heard none. He waited several minutes, but neither girl showed any signs of waking, so he stood up straight. First he bent over the one with the short hair, smelling her and tracing her sleeping form. Next, he went over to the other. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. The covers reached only to the middle of her stomach: She wore a thin nightgown; her nipples were visible beneath. His breath caught in his throat, and he decided.

It would be her.

Moving with the fluidity of a shadow, he mounted her, his knees on either side of her legs. He reached out and touched her face with a trembling hand; her eyes shot open.

"Shhhh," he whispered, and fear came into them. She gazed at him, transfixed. He could feel the frightened beat of her heart, and it excited him.

He leaned close, and her eyes widened. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "I won't..." He pushed her head to the side and kissed her slender throat. It quivered and pulsed under his lips. Her smell filled his nostrils, and he felt himself losing control. He wanted to savor this, to savor _her_ , not plunge right in and finish. He didn't think he could wait, though. He licked her skin, kissed it. She shook with terror. He grinned and pulled back, looking into her eyes.

"It won't hurt," he said, running his hands up her flanks. "In fact..." he leaned back in, his face inches from hers, "you'll enjoy it."

She blinked.

"You'll enjoy it _immensely_."

With that, he sank his fangs into Luan Loud's throat. Hot, coppery blood filled his mouth. She was stiff at first, but soon her body began to move, her legs rubbing together and her eyelids fluttering. A sigh passed her lips, and she ran her hands up and down his back, digging her nails into the fabric of his coat. He pressed his face deeper into the crook of her neck, and she sighed, her thighs rubbing more furiously now. Before she lapsed into unconsciousness, her breath hitched and her body quivered as she reached her peak. Then, with a shudder, she went limp once more.

For a long time, John Carver lay on top of her, panting, the taste of her coating his mouth. Before dawn, he climbed out the window, closed it, and crawled down the side of the house like a spider. His dead flesh was warm, and his chest tingled. He felt alive.

In his room, climbed into his coffin and closed the lid.

He was losing control, he reflected in the dark.

And he _liked_ it.


	8. The Kiss

_Beep-beep-beep._

Oh no. Lincoln opened one eye and glared at the alarm clock. 6am. This can't be happening.

Sighing, he reached out and slapped the snooze button. Oh, he was tired. Why did it always feel like the night passed in five minutes? The sad thing was: He could wake up at 6 on a Saturday morning, with nothing planned for the day and nowhere to be, and feel like a million dollars.

He rolled onto his back. It wasn't fair. It was _un_ fair.

When the alarm sounded again, snapping Lincoln awake, he turned it off and sat up. He hated the sound of the alarm. It haunted his dreams.

Getting up, he went into the hall and waited in line for the bathroom behind Luna, his head hung and his eyes heavy. "This is some _dumb_ shit," he muttered.

"You said it, bro," Luna croaked tiredly. Then: "Hey, you got a dick, go piss out your window."

"And turn that creepy old guy next door on?"

"Maybe he gives good head."

Lincoln sighed. "It's too early for gross shit like that."

He hung his head and closed his eyes. He was starting to nod off when someone bumped into him. "Hey, Lincoln."

Lincoln turned. Lucy was there, rocking back and forth on her heels. Suddenly the sleep was out of Lincoln's mind and he didn't feel so grumpy. "How'd you sleep?"

"I _think_ I slept," he said. "I don't really feel like it, though."

"I've been up for an hour. I love mornings. They're so quiet and peaceful."

"I like mornings too," Lincoln said, "I just don't like waking up."

When it was his turn in the bathroom, he pissed, hurriedly brushed his teeth, and splashed cold water onto his face. His eyes no longer felt grainy, but they ached like he'd just spent the night at a 3 Stooges convention. "All yours, sis," he said to Lucy as he passed.

"Thanks," she said.

He glanced back at her, but she was already looking at him: She blushed and turned away. His own face burned. In his room, he got dressed, pulled his shoes on, and started down the stairs when he realized that he hadn't seen Lynn. Or Luan. Both of them were usually ahead of him in line, but never by much.

Turning around, he went to Lynn's door and found her lying face down in bed, her eyes open. "How's your ankle?" he asked.

"Eh," she said. "Better. Everything else is sore, though." She sighed. "I could use a deep tissue massage." She looked pointedly at Lincoln.

"Uh, okay." He looked around the room. "Where do you keep your tissues?"

"No, dumbass, it's...nevermind." She pushed herself into a sitting position and rubbed her head.

Whatever. He went to Luan's room and started to knock just as it opened and Luan appeared, startling him.

"Jesus!"

Luan looked like death warmed over. Literally. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was drawn, her skin a sallow shade. Her lids hung heavy.

"No, it's Luan," she said in a groan.

"You look like shit."

"Suck my tit," she said, and pushed him aside. Her hands were clammy. She staggered to the bathroom door and waited with crossed arms, resting her forehead against the wall. Lincoln went to her.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," she said without turning or opening her eyes. "I just had a rough night."

Her mind flashed back to the nightmare she'd had: Cold hands on her body, glowing red eyes in the dark, long, sharp teeth in her neck. She shivered and hugged herself.

"Yeah, you don't look so good."

"Leave me alone," she said forcelessly.

Just then, Lucy came out of the bathroom, and Luan went in. Lucy caught a glimpse of her face and blinked. "What's up with Luan?"

"I don't know," Lincoln said, his stomach tight with anxiety. "I think she's sick."

Downstairs, Lincoln ate a bowl of cereal as the normal morning chaos raged around him. When he was finished and Luan still hadn't come down, he got worried. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding what to do, then went up to her room. She was curled up in bed. "Hey," he said, "you alright?"

"Ugh."

He took that as a no and went over to the bed. "Do you want me to call mom or dad?"

Both of their parents had already left for work.

"No," she said, "I'm just tired. Leave me alone."

Back downstairs, everyone else had left except for Lucy, who was sitting in the armchair and swinging her legs. When she saw him, she looked up. "You ready?"

"One minute," he said.

In the kitchen, he drew a glass of water and stole one of Lynn's sports bars from the pantry. Luan was asleep when he returned, snoring lightly. He sat the glass and the bar on the nightstand then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

"Maybe it's the flu," Lucy offered as they started toward school. It was sunny and cold. The trees along the street blazed yellow, orange, and red. A man was raking leaves into a pile across the street and lighting them on fire; the smoky smell found Lincoln's nostrils, and he inhaled it with a sigh.

"It looked like it," he said.

They cut through the park and were coming out of the woods when they saw police cars and yellow tape fluttering in the breeze. They stopped.

"Uh, we should probably turn around," Lincoln said.

"I wonder what it is," Lucy said as they backtracked. She glanced over her shoulder.

"I don't know," he said, "and I really don't care."

"You're heartless, Lincoln," she said, and leaned into him.

"I give so much heart to my family that I don't have any left over for anyone else," Lincoln replied, leaning into her. "It's your fault."

" _My_ fault, huh?" She leaned into him again. "Do you give me more than you give everyone else?"

"Do you want extra?"

"Yes."

That stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned to look at his sister, but she was looking down at her shoes.

 _I can't believe I said that,_ Lucy thought, her heart slamming and her stomach sick.

Lincoln, his face burning, rubbed the back of his neck. His heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what she _meant_.

But he knew this: He _wanted_ to give Lucy extra.

Surprising himself, he took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled good and she was warm, the feeling of her heart beating against his making his stomach watery. "You can have it," he said.

She hugged him back but pulled away, looking up at him, a little smile on her face. "You mean it?"

"Yes," Lincoln said.

She smiled and leaned into him. He leaned into her. Their lips met halfway, brushing lightly together like satin and silk; her breath was hot and sweet in his mouth, making his knees weak. The tips of their tongues met shyly and fleetingly. Lincoln closed his eyes and relished the closeness of her mouth, the smell of her shampoo, the feeling of her heart beating quickly against his, the two briefly becoming one.

"If I had a heart it would be swelling," she said with a wide smile.

"You can have mine," he said, putting his arm around her. "Now let's go. We're going to be late."

Lucy walked on clouds the whole way. She was so elated, so dizzy and happy, that she didn't notice Taylor Hogan wasn't in class, didn't hear the other kids whispering that she didn't come home last night, and that the police found a body in the park. Even if she did, she wouldn't have cared. Lincoln was her world entire; she had eyes, ears, or mind for nothing else.

* * *

Lincoln Loud carried his lunch tray to the table and sat next to Clyde. He navigated the cafeteria and found his spot automatically, his mind faraway, as it had been the whole day. That morning, in a stand of forest, he kissed his little sister, Lucy. The taste of her lips lingered on his, and the tip of his tongue tingled still. He was confused. And scared. Confused because he was feeling something for her that you weren't supposed to feel for your sister, and scared because he'd been feeling this way for a while and he felt like maybe, just maybe, he misinterpreted an innocent comment and forced himself on her. He thought back to the encounter, and he honestly didn't think that was the case: She seemed to like it just as much as he did. But what if she was just playing along out of obligation, or even fear? What if she was hurt and scared because her big brother took advantage of her.

"Earth to Lincoln," Clyde said, and Lincoln shook his head.

"Sorry. I just have a lot of my mind."

"Did you hear anything I said?"

"Not a word."

Clyde shook his head. "I said did you hear about the body they found in the park today?"

Lincoln's head snapped around. "They found a body?"

Clyde nodded. "Yep. Word on the street says it's Taylor Hogan. She didn't come home last night."

"Who?"

"She's in Lucy's class," Clyde said, "though she's older than everyone else. She got held back a couple times."

Lincoln's mind flashed to the police cars and yellow crime scene tape he and Lucy had seen in the park that morning, and he shivered. "What happened to her?"

"No one knows," Clyde said. "No one's even sure it's really her. It could have been a hobo or something. You have to take these things with a grain of salt."

"Yeah..." Lincoln trailed off as Lucy entered the cafeteria, her hands behind her back. Her step was light and bouncy...she didn't look like a girl who had practically been molested by her older brother. She paused, scanned the room (Lincoln almost had the urge to duck), and saw him, a smile crossing her face. She waved, and he waved back, feeling better.

She picked up a tray, went through line, and came over, sitting next to him. "Hey, Lincoln," she said.

"Hey, Lucy," he said.

"Lucy, do you know Taylor Hogan?" Clyde asked.

"Yeah," Lucy said, "she's a bitch. Why?"

"She didn't come home last night, and they found a dead body in the park that might be her."

Lucy looked at him. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said.

"That must be what we saw this morning," Lucy told Lincoln. Clyde looked confused, so Lincoln explained about the cop cars and police tape.

"Did you see a body?" Clyde asked.

"If we saw a body we'd have mentioned it by now," Lucy said.

"Right," Clyde said. "What do you think happened to her?"

Lucy shrugged. "Maybe she ran her mouth to the wrong person. Like I said, she wasn't very nice."

"If it's her," Lincoln pointed out.

"If it's her," Lucy agreed. She rested her head against Lincoln's arm, surprising him. What surprised him even more was that he slipped his arm around her shoulder, and that she then rested her head on his chest.

Clyde didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't find it strange. "I just hope it's not a serial killer like in this movie I saw the other day. This guy was killing all these ladies and dumping their body parts around the city, and he kept leaving notes for the police and messing with their heads. It was pretty scary."

"Yeah," Lincoln said distantly. He was looking into Lucy's upturned face. He reached a hand out and brushed her bangs aside, revealing her soft blue eyes.

"This feels weird," she said, blinking. She gazed into her eyes.

"I almost forgot how beautiful your eyes are," Lincoln said.

She blushed.

"Then there was a movie where this guy was killing people and wearing their faces like masks," Clyde rambled on, "that one was _really_ scary."

* * *

Lynn Loud stumbled out the side door and limped across the football field. The sky was gray and a cold wind swept across the open plain. She'd tried to go to football practice, but after taking one look at her, Coach told her to get lost. "You're our best player, Loud, and if you mess your ankle up for good, we can kiss the state championships goodbye." Lynn didn't think she would be able practice anyway, but it was worth a shot: What was an autumn afternoon without sports?

On the sidewalk now, Lynn started the long journey home, but stopped when Vanzilla turned onto the street ahead of her and slowed. Lori was behind the wheel; she rolled down the passenger window. "Get in."

Lynn staggered to the door and climbed in; it feel _so_ good to be off her damaged foot. "Thanks," Lynn said.

"Not a problem," Lori said, turning around. "I figured you'd be walking. It occurred to me you'd go to practice, get sent home, and wind up hobbling up the street."

"Hobbling," Lynn said. "Nice."

"What were you just doing?" Lori asked, looking at her.

Lynn thought for a moment. "Hobbling."

They both laughed.

"I also..." Lori started, then stopped.

"What?" Lynn asked.

"I was kind of worried about you," Lori finally said. "They found some girl in the park dead. The news said she was murdered."

"Oh, I heard about that. Well, just that they found a body."

"Yeah, someone killed her," Lori said.

"Jeez," Lynn muttered.

"And..." Lori glanced at her. "You're a twerp and you get on literally my last nerve sometimes, but I love you and I don't want you walking home." Lori quickly looked away and placed her attention back on the road.

Lynn smiled. Even though they pranked one another, and picked on each other, and snapped at each other, and called each other names, they loved each other dearly. Their family wasn't perfect, but you don't have to be _Leave it to Beaver_ to be a loving family. You could rib each other and get impatient and grumpy. That's life. Not every family sucks faces and kisses each other's asses 24/7.

"I love you too, sis," Lynn said.

Lori blew her a kiss, and Lynn caught it. Then, with a mischievous grin, she shifted and planted it firmly on her ass.

"Nice," Lori laughed. "I save you from a serial killer and you put my special sister kiss on your butt. I'll remember that."

Lynn shrugged. "I'm Lynn Loud. If I go mushy, the team's going to lose the state championship."

"Like it stands a chance _now_."

* * *

The first thing Lincoln did when he got home was check in on Luan. She was sitting up in her bed reading by soft lamplight. She looked up, saw him, and smiled, "Hey, Linc! How was school?"

"Okay," he nodded, "it was a very okay day. How're you feeling?"

"Better," she said. "I was just really tired." She closed her book and set it aside. "Still kind of am, but not as bad. I assume you're the one who left the water and sports bar."

"Maybe," Lincoln said.

"Thank you," she said.

"Oh, you'd do the same," he said. "I hope."

"Of course I would," she said. "Just because I bust your balls doesn't mean I don't love you. Sheesh. Sensitive, much?"

"All I said was..."

"I'm playing with you," she said, and grinned. "Boy, you really _must_ have some tiny nuts."

"They're bigger than those mosquito bumps you call breasts."

Luan lost it, laughing so hard that she slumped against the bed. She tried to speak, but laughed even harder. " _That's_ what I'm talking about, Linc. That was good. Fuck you." Still laughing, she picked up her pillow and threw it at him. He ducked into the hall.

"Can you throw that back, please?"

Lincoln went to grab it, and another pillow hit him in the head. Luan laughed. "You're so gullible."

He picked both pillows up and threw them at Luan; she put up her arms and smacked one away; the other hit her in the face. "Alright, that's enough," she said. "I have to sleep on these things."

After grabbing an apple from the kitchen, he went to his room, and was surprised to find Lucy sitting Indian style on his bed. "Hey," he said.

"Hi."

"What's up?"

"I...I just wanted to talk," Lucy said.

Swallowing hard, his heart already starting to pound, he shut the door and sat down. He took a bite of the apple and held it out to Lucy. She leaned in and bit down.

"Lincoln," she said, and sighed. "I think I'm in love with you."

The declaration was so frank, and so sudden, that it caught Lincoln off guard. He dropped the apple into his lap, then hurriedly picked it up. He tried to swallow what was in his mouth, but it wouldn't go down, and he coughed.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah." He turned to face his sister. He took her hands in his and looked at her, a mixture of emotions threading through his heart. "I...I don't know _what_ I'm feeling," he said honestly. He looked down then up at her. "But I like it. And I like you."

Lucy smiled, and leaned in. He tilted his head, the tips of their noses rubbing together, and kissed her, his tongue dancing over her bottom lip and into her mouth, where she met it with her own. His hand flew to her cheek, and she grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. Their kissing became more urgent, more needy. When she pulled away, panting, she giggled. "Wow."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "Tell me about it."

They stayed that way for a long time, their breaths shaky and their bodies jelly. The taste of forbidden fruit filled Lucy's mouth, and she quivered at its sweetness. Lincoln thought over and over again _I just kissed my kid sister, I just kissed my kid sister_ , and though it disturbed him on some level, he liked it. It felt dangerous, wrong, exciting, and _natural_. He wanted to kiss her again and again. He wanted their tongues to dance endlessly together, their hearts to gently pound in time, their fingers to lightly graze each other's bodies. He shuddered, and Lucy laughed.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"It makes me feel good that I can do that to you."

He hugged her close, his nose buried in her hair.

"Remember that poem I read you the other day?"

"Yes."

Lucy looked up at him. "It was about you."

Lincoln smiled. "It makes me feel go that I can do _that_ to _you_."


	9. Creatures of the Night

The sun sank slowly from the sky, the light gradually receding from the town of Royal Woods. Streetlamps winked on. Children grudgingly went inside. The window rose.

Henry Wickline, the Allen County Medical Examiner, entered the morgue under Royal Woods General Hospital through a side door and walked down a long, echoy corridor with flickering lights. Wickline's office was off the morgue, a tiny, cramped space stuffed with files, boxes, papers, and surplus equipment. Inside, he sat down the brown paper bag from McDonald's, then went out into the morgue itself: It was a cold room with puke green tile floors, harsh white lights, and metal cabinets lining the walls. On a gurney in the middle of the room, a small figure lay under a sheet. Taylor Hogan, twelve, cause of death exsanguination – massive loss of blood. Wickline drew back the sheet and gazed upon the dead girl's white, upturned face. There was a bluish tint to her lips, and her blonde hair was almost colorless, as if it, too, had been drained. There was a pinprick on her left arm through which, Wickline assumed, the sick bastard had taken enough of her blood to kill her.

Sighing, his eyes automatically drifting to the ugly Y-shaped incision on her chest, Wickline replaced the sheet and went back into his office.

Dealing with dead kids was never easy. Wickline had no children of his own, but he _did_ have nieces and nephews, and it was hard to work on a kid without seeing _their_ faces, even now that they were all grown and had children of their own. It was worse when it was _murdered_ kid. What kind of sick bastard kills a child? Especially _this_ way...slowly bleeding them until they expired like an animal. Guy must be a real Jeffery Dahmer.

The day's proceedings hadn't affected Wickline's appetite. Presently, he took out his Double Quarter Pound and then his fries. He sat the latter on a stack of papers pertaining to the big accident on I-75 this past summer (caused by a jack-knifing tractor trailer) and sat the former on the desk's only clear spot. Silence hung heavy, the only sounds the clock ticking on the wall and the steady drip of the sink in the morgue where Wickline scrubbed himself after post-mortems. Even now, after twenty-five years, it got kind of creepy if you sat down and really forced the issue. Wickline did not: He forced a bite of hamburger into his mouth instead.

He was just taking his second bite when something metallic clattered to the floor in the other room, startling him so badly that he squeezed his burger to mush. He chuckled, his heart racing. It happened all the time, especially if you left something too close to the edge of the tray: The vibrations from the boiler room worked it and worked it until it fell and scared the shit out of you. He remembered the first time it happened to him, way back when he was working under the previous Medical Examiner, Murry Potter. They were sitting in this very office (it was much neater then, old Murry being a stickler), Murry behind the desk and Wickline in front of it. There were four bodies in the morgue and they were filling out forms when something crashed to the floor like it just had. Murry looked up, his face white and his eyes wide, "Oh, God, it's happening again."

"What?" Wickline asked, his heart twinging.

"The dead...they're coming back."

Wickline uttered a small laugh. "Murry, you're..."

Murry looked over Wickline's shoulder and screamed, and Wickline jumped to his feet, his heart in his throat and his fists balled.

There was nothing there.

How Murray _laughed_.

"You bastard," Wickline muttered, his face flush.

He smiled as he remembered it. Murry was also the one who told him not to open any of the drawers if he ever heard knocking.

Shaking his head, he brought the burger to his mouth, and it happened again, something metal hit the floor, the sound echoing horribly, and he jumped. Goddamn it. He threw the burger back into its carton and got up, wiping his hands on his scrubs top. One happened here and there, but never too. Probably someone playing jokes.

He poked his head into the morgue and saw a metal cup rolling back and forth near the floor drain. He went over to the table and checked the trays. Nothing else was on the edge. He looked around, saw no one, and decided it was a coincidence: After wrapping up Taylor Hogan's all-day post-mortem, he was in a rush to get some dinner, which meant he must have left at least two things haphazardly near the edge.

Shaking his head and calling himself a fool, he went back into his office and sat down again. He picked up his burger and took another bite. He followed it with a few fries. McDonald's fries had really done downhill over the years. Once upon a time they were goddamn addicting, now they were just tolerable. He took a drink, threw a few more fires into his mouth, and went back to his burger, his ears filled with the sound of his own chewing. When he swallowed and opened his mouth for the burger, he heard something, and his heart seized. For a second eerie silence held sway, and he listened, his mouth open and the burger inches from his face. Then it came again, a shuffling scrape like...

...like a footstep.

It came again, and his heart rocketed into his throat. That's _exactly_ what it sounded like, a footstep, but not just any footstep, the dead, dragging footstep of a corpse returned to life.

 _Get a grip, damn it._

Setting down his burger, moving slowly, as though afraid whatever (who _ever_ , _Henry_ ) would hear. He wiped his hands and got up, grabbing a surgical hammer from the desk. "I'm going to brain you," he said, "so knock it off. This isn't a playground or a comedy club."

He reached the door, wary of his surroundings, and stopped, his eyes widened. The table where Taylor Hogan had lain just minutes ago was empty, the sheet balled on the floor. His blood ran cold, and when the shuffle/scrape came again, this time from his left, he wheeled around with a cry.

Taylor Hogan, naked as the day she was born, was there, her eyes yellow and her mouth open, a long, low hiss issuing forth. Her canines were sharp, too sharp, and her fingers were hooked into talons, the nails jagged.

Wickline opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Taylor came forward, and he fell back a step, his heart slamming against his ribcage. _"Come to me..."_ she said, _"come to me_."

She got closer, and Wickline's paralysis broke. He raised the hammer and brought it down on her head. She jerked, but didn't stumble, didn't stagger: With a soulless wail, she reached out and grabbed his arm, her nails sinking deep into his flesh, blood bubbling out. Wickline screamed, and hit her again. She pushed him, and he fell back against the examine table, Taylor Hogan leaning over him, her mouth open.

Henry Wickline screamed as her fangs rent his throat.

* * *

John Carver sat by the window overlooking the Loud house, sipping blood from a tea cup and basking in the warm, musky smell of girl. Straker said the family had eleven children, one of whom was a boy. Did that mean ten girls, or were there other males? He couldn't even smell the presence of boy, which led him to believe that 'Lincoln' was the sole penis bearer (aside from his father, of course). Ten girls. Ten beautiful, lively, blood filled girls. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the scent caress his nostrils. When he opened his eyes again, they were red, and his fangs were descended. He took another sip of the blood, but it was not fresh, came not from the delicate throat of a teenage girl. He tossed the cup aside, where it smashed against the floor.

It had been thus always, even when Carver was a man. His eye, and other parts, were drawn to girls in the bloom of adolescence, when their cheeks were rosy and their eyes shining with life and hope. That, he realized over the years, was what had always drawn him: The energy, the vitality, the beauty of a maiden in her girlhood. There was no more lovey, optimistic, _powerful_ creature, no greater dreamer, no greater creator, no more _alluring_ presence. In those days, as teams of men dug the first trenches that would become the great Erie Canal, Carver loved just such a girl, a girl who was barely fourteen and the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. One day in the fall of 1822, she caught sick with consumption and died, the first of many in his Catskills village. Only it wasn't consumption at all; she'd been bitten by a vampyre as in the Polidori tale. He remembered the hysteria, the gatherings at the congregation house, the men with torches digging bodies from the cold, wintery ground and driving stakes into their hearts. He remembered being so hopeful that she would come back to him, and nearly crying with joy when she did in the night, her lips cold against the skin of his neck. He remembered waking in the night, his body aching and his throat parched.

And she was gone, to where, and to what fate, he could not say, most likely beheaded and burned. The thought did not bother him. She was dead anyway. She was not warm and full of life, she was cold and full of sour blood.

"I assume you visited the Louds last night," Straker said from behind him. Carver was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't heard him enter.

"Yes," Carver said.

Straker sighed. "Perhaps you were onto something the other night. I will be viewing a double-wide two towns over tomorrow..."

"Cancel the appointment."

"But, sir..."

Carver turned. Straker was mildly surprised to see his master's state: The glowing eyes, the long, protruding fangs. He _had_ lost control. "We're fine where we are."

"And the girl? The one you turned? What happens when she goes missing from the morgue or the hospital or wherever she's being kept? It will appear in the news, her actions afterwards will appear in the news...and the hunters _watch_ the news."

Carver snickered and waved his hands. "Let them come. We'll have to face them eventually, why not get it out of the way?"

"Sir..."

"I'm sick of running, Richard. I'm sick of constantly looking over my shoulder. If they come to stake me, let them stake me, and chop my head off, and burn my body, but I refuse to stop. If I'm to die, I intend to die free doing as I please."

Straker sighed. "Very well, sir. Shall I get your coat?"

"Not right now, I..." Carver trailed off as two figures exited the Loud house's back door. He leaned forward, his night eyes attuned to the dark. One was a frail boy with white hair. He wore a loud orange shirt and a pair of denim trousers. The other was a small girl with black hair, bangs covering her eyes. Carver's breath caught in his throat as he drank her in. She wore a black dress with strange black and white striped cloth (were they pants, or were they something new?) on her legs and arms. She moved with a silent grace and beauty that Carver had never seen in a mortal girl.

She was dark, she was mysterious, she was enchanting. Her flesh was pale but no doubt warm. A healthy heart beat in her chest. Her eyes would sparkle with the vitality he held so dear. Her throat would be warm and soft under his lips, much the way her sister's had been the night before, but softer, warmer, and most satisfying. He imagined himself drinking slowly, lapping her red lifeblood from her skin like a dog, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"Who is that girl?" he asked.

Straker came forward and bent to see out the window, his eyes squinted. "Lucy," he finally said, and stood up straight.

"Lucy..." Carver said, tasting her name like fine wine. "Lucy..."

"At a guess, she's ten," Straker offered.

Straker swallowed. "That young?" he looked at his servant.

"Certainly no older."

Carver turned back to the window as she and her brother stretched out in the grass. What were they doing? He leaned closer, and from the way the boy pointed, he inferred that they were looking at the stars.

"Her presence is...more mature."

"From what I've seen of her, she _does_ seem mature for her age."

Carver took a deep, shuddery breath. Ten was terribly young, younger than he had ever been attracted to. But this one...this dark, raven-haired princess of the night...he shivered and gripped the arms of his chair.

"She's caught your eye?"

"She has," Carver admitted.

Straker had been serving Johnathan Carver long enough to know what would happen next. Neither one spoke. Neither one _had_ to.

"When?" Straker finally asked.

"I don't know," Carver said, and rubbed his hand over his mouth like a drunk craving a drink. "Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after..."

* * *

A strange sound brought Clyde McBride out of a deep sleep. For a long moment, he lay in his bed, his eyes closed and his mind full of woolen sleep. It came again, a sort of scratch, and he sat up, his blankets rustling.

The room was shrouded in darkness. The alarm clock on the nightstand said it was just after 3am. The paranormal investigators on ARGGH called the hour between 3am and 4am "deadtime" because that's when supernatural activity was supposed to be at its peak: Ghosts, demons, and witches had more strength, more power, at 3am, because, as legend has it, 3pm is when Christ died on the cross, and 3am is the complete polar opposite, the other end of the coin, the Satan to the God, the Antichrist to the Christ, the hell to the heaven. Clyde did not like being up at this hour, and he most certainly didn't like _waking_ at this hour, especially to strange sounds.

The sound came again, and Clyde's heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the flashlight from his nightstand and turned it on, slashing the shadows with the beam. He didn't see anything in the corner, and nothing by the door. The scratching came again, and he realized that it was coming from the window. He shakily pointed the beam in that direction and saw nothing.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself, _you're cadet Clyde of the Academy of Really Good Ghost Hunters, you got this._

Nodding, his confidence momentarily restored, Clyde slipped out of bed and padded to the window, the beam reflecting off the pane and blinding him. He turned the flashlight off as he reached the window and looked out, sweeping his gaze left then right. Nothing. It must have been...

A white face appeared, and Clyde fell back with a scream.

The thing grinned, its eyes a cat-like yellow. He was frozen, transfixed.

" _Let me in,"_ Taylor Hogan hissed, scratching at the window pane. _"Let me in..."_

When she spoke, Clyde caught flashes of the needlepoint fangs where her canines should be. He could see only a little bit of her bare chest, but he recognized the upper two lines of a Y incision, just like they did on the police procedural shows his dad liked so much.

" _Let me in..."_

Clyde stared deeply into her yellow, shining lamplight eyes, his body going number and his mind feeling as though it were being smothered. Against his will, his feet carried him toward the window, toward the creature beyond.

 _No!_

He tried to resist, but couldn't; he could only watch in horror as his fingers unlocked the window, as his hands lifted the sash, as the thing floated into his room, grinning...

* * *

Deep in the night, a shadow fell across Luan Loud's face. A cold hand with long, slender fingers rested upon her head, and in her sleep she whimpered. A thin face bent close to hers, its eyes red and fangs hanging over its lower lip. Its breath was cold and rank with blood.

" _Lucy..."_ it said, _"where is Lucy?"_

Luan's brow furrowed. "Hall...take a right...next door."

" _Sleep."_

Luan's brow smoothed and she sank deeper into sleep. The figure stood and went into the hall, the hem of its long coat swishing around its knees. Its tread was light, as its feet never touched the ground. As it approached, it waved its hand, and the door opened. Inside, two girls slept in separate beds. The figure followed Lucy's scent to the bed against the west wall and bent down. She was on her side, facing her sister, her hands tucked under her face in a position of prayer. Beautiful. Ethereal. Queen.

The figure reached out and touched her face. Her skin was warm and smooth. She muttered and stirred, but did not wake.

Soon...soon he would take her away from this house, from this town...and she would be his entirely. Until then, he would save her the way a man might save a particularly special vintage of wine.

Turning, the figure went to the other bed. A girl with brown hair and freckles was lying on her back, a thin ribbon of drool coursing its way down the side of her mouth. She snored deeply. The figure leaned forward, its feet leaving the floor; it hovered over her, watching her with blazing eyes. In her sleep, she felt his presence, and her eyes slowly fluttered open. When she saw him, they went wide.

" _Shhhh..."_ the figure said, and Lynn did not scream, did not move. She was transfixed by those shining graveyard eyes, her fingers gripping the hem of her blanket. The figure glided down onto her, its form heavy and cold. She watched it.

" _Precious little girl..."_ it said, stroking her cheek. _"Beautiful girl."_

Its cold lips brushed hers, then moved to the corner of her mouth, then down her cheek to her neck. She felt two pinpricks, and warmth rushed into her, pushing a small moan past her lips. Lips pressed greedily to her neck, and a quiver of excitement went through her center. She craned her neck to the side to give the creature better access, her breath beginning to come in ragged little gasps. She ran her hands through its hair and wrapped her legs around its hips. Her eyes closed and her teeth bared. She was rising, rising, weightless, pressure building in her stomach. She bit her bottom lip and grabbed a handful of the thing's coat.

The figure drank deeply, unware that they were floating feet above the bed, and that they were slowly spinning, stray drops of blood splattering the bed and the wall. The girl bucked in his arms and hissed over clenched teeth as she achieved orgasm.

 _Too much...you're taking too much..._

It pulled its lips away, and they fell onto the bed, him on top. Panting, it held her head to its chest, its body warm and full of life. The girl trembled beneath it, and when it pulled away, it saw a distant, faraway look in her eyes. Had it taken much more, she would have died, and then turned. As it stood, she was in the dim netherworld between life and unlife, not human, not vampire, not clean, not wholly unclean. Only one thing would bring her back to full life. And another would bring her to full unlife.

The figure kissed her bloody throat, the aroma of her blood intoxicating. Just a little more, and she could be his forever.

But he didn't want her.

He wanted her sister.

Sweet, sweet Lucy.

As the first light of dawn touched the eastern sky, the figure departed, leaving the girl-thing in her bed.


	10. Suspicions

**This story's done, so I'm going to go ahead and post an extra chapter today. I know, everyone tells me I post too often. I guess if you don't post too often, you don't post often enough. There is no middle ground.**

 **Is anyone upset there's a vampire in this? I thought it'd be a nice surprise, you know, do something different, switch things up. I just don't know how many of you have a vampire phobia, and I'd hate to think I'm keeping you up at night in a cold sweat. Man, I'd hate that.**

 **Edit: I mean I'm done writing. There are a few more chapters to go.**

Lucy Loud woke minutes before hers and Lynn's joint alarm clock went off. For a moment she thought about turning it off, but if she did, she would have to wake Lynn up, and if Lincoln was a zombie in the morning, Lynn was a literal corpse lying in a ditch. You could stand over her and crash a pair of symbols together, and she still wouldn't wake up. In fact, Lucy was convinced you could shoot her in the leg and she wouldn't even flinch.

When the alarm went off, Lucy waited for Lynn to knock the shit out of it like she did every morning.

 _Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep._

Jesus, Lynn. Lucy rolled over and turned it off herself. Her sister was a humped form under the covers. Lucy opened her mouth to call to her, but stopped when she saw strange red splatters on the wall near Lynn's bed. What is _that_?

"Lynn?"

Lynn didn't move.

"Lynn?"

Still didn't move.

"Lynn!"

From under the covers, Lynn gave out a moan, and Lucy's heart clutched. "Are you okay?" she asked, swinging her legs out from under the covers and standing.

Lynn moaned again, a long, low, broken sound. Lucy went to her, and noticed the same red splatters on the blanket and the sheets.

Lucy reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the cover back. When she saw her sister, she screamed.

Lincoln staggered into the hall, his eyes bleary and his head aching, and went to the bathroom door. Leni was waiting her turn, humming and bobbing her head from side-to-side. It reminded Lincoln of a joke Luan once told him. How do you kill a blonde? Put spikes on her shoulder pads and ask her a question. _I don't know_ *leftrightleftrightleftright* Lincoln snickered at the memory.

Then Lucy screamed, and his heart jerked.

Though he was closer to the door than Leni, she made it in first, because Lincoln choked. Inside, Lucy was standing over Lynn's bed, her arms at her sides. Lincoln shoved Leni aside and rushed to his sister's side. Lynn, her face the color of milk and the undersides of her eyes dark, lie on her back, her chapped lips slightly parted and her breathing shallow. Her neck was crusted with dried blood. Drops marred the bed, the blanket, the wall, and even (what the hell?) the ceiling.

"What's wrong?" Lori asked breathlessly. She wore nothing but a towel, her hair soaking wet and beads of water trailing down her bare legs.

"I-It's Lynn," Lincoln said, stepping back as Lori rushed over. Next to him, Lucy was crying, and he snaked his arm around her.

"Jesus Christ, Lynn," Lori started, "what happened?"

Lynn swallowed hard and tried to speak, but it came out a husky whisper.

"What's going on up here?" mom's voice came from the hall.

"It's Lynn!" Lori cried. "She's hurt!"

"What?"

Mom rushed in and Lori fell back a step. Mom sat on the edge of the bed and touched Lynn's face. "Oh, my God, honey! What's wrong?"

"I feel like shit," Lynn muttered.

"What happened to your _neck_? There's blood everywhere!"

Mom looked at Lori. "Call 911."

Nodding, Lori rushed away, brushing past Luan and Luna, who stood helplessly at the door. "What happened?" Luan asked worriedly.

"I don't know," mom said, stroking Lynn's face.

"I'm fine," Lynn said, her voice dry and rattling, "really."

"Don't talk." Mom looked up at Lincoln. "Lincoln, get your sister a glass of water."

Nodding, Lincoln (regretfully) took his arm away from Lucy, who was hugging herself, and ran downstairs as fast as he could. In the kitchen, he took a glass form a cabinet above the sink, filled it with tap water, and rushed back upstairs. Luan was hugging Lucy, and Lincoln was grateful.

He handed the glass to his mother. "Tilt her head up," mom said, and Lincoln, sitting by Lynn's head, slipped his hands underneath and raised her so that she could drink, mom holding the glass to Lynn's lips.

"They're on the way," Lori said, coming back into the room.

"I...I had a nightmare," Lynn grated.

"What?" mom asked.

"A nightmare," Lynn said, putting more force in her voice. "Someone...bit me. Like a vampire."

No one saw the blood drain from Luan's face. Her fingers fluttered to the two puncture marks on her neck. She told herself they were bug bites when she first saw them, but now...

Luan noticed Lincoln watching her, his brow cocked. She looked away. She was wrong. Had to be. It was stupid to think that an actual...she couldn't even finish the thought. Still, her mind flashed back to the blood on her pillow, the nightmare where a thing with red eyes bit her neck...

* * *

Lincoln and Lucy walked to school in a cold drizzle, the gray skies matching their somber moods. Lincoln kept thinking of the ambulance that had come to bear his sister away, a band of anxiety tightening around his chest. Lynn was conscious when the paramedics wheeled her out, and insisting she was fine. Lincoln wanted to believe that she was, but Lynn was stubborn. She could be cut in half and still claim she was okay. Lucy, for her part, focused on Lynn's blood covered face popping out when she pulled back the covers. For a brief, heart-pounding second, she thought her sister was dead.

The image replayed itself again and again in her head. The blood, her open eyes, her parted lips...and the puncture wounds on her neck, raised, angry pink, crusted with blood. Lucy had seen marks like those a million times in movies and on TV. Of course, that was pretend. The creatures who made those marks didn't exist.

Was it a coincidence that Lynn dreamed of something biting her neck? Something like a vampire? Something else _could_ have bitten her (a bug? A rabid dog?) and she simply incorporated it into her dream, but the amount of blood (and the effects of her obvious blood _loss_ ) told Lucy that wasn't right.

Another thing: How could so much blood come from such tiny holes? And...where was the rest of it? There a lot, but not _that_ much.

When they reached the school, Lincoln took her hands in his. "Everything's going to be fine," he said, attempting to provide her with the assurance he himself did not feel. "She's Lynn. She can pull through anything."

"Yeah," Lucy said glumly. "I'll see you later."

Lincoln watched her go inside, his heart aching.

The day passed in a slow void. Lucy trying and failing to focus on her work but thinking of Lynn's face and the marks on her neck. During math class, she remembered something: When Lynn mentioned her dream, Luan looked like she'd seen a ghost, and her hand went to her neck.

Almost like she was remembering a similar incident.

Lucy took a deep breath and resolved to talk to Luan when she got home.

At lunch, she sat with Lincoln, taking comfort in his presence. Clyde wasn't there, and his focus was entirely on her, which made her feel like a princess. They held hands under the table and talked. Lori texted him at noon saying Lynn was fine but staying at the hospital at least overnight. Blood loss.

"Thank God she's okay, at least," Lincoln said, squeezing her hand. "I wonder what it was."

"I don't know," Lucy said.

In study hall, Lucy finished her homework with a half hour to spare, and tried to write a poem imbued with the horror she felt on pulling the cover back and seeing Lynn's face, but the words wouldn't come, and frustrated, she got up and went over to the table where books, magazines, and newspapers were stacked for students in just such a predicament. She selected a newspaper with the intention of reading the comics and took it back to her desk, glancing at the front page and freezing when she saw a column in the lower right side headed: **MORGUE THEFT.** Below that was: **BODY, MEDICAL EXAMINER MISSING.**

Lucy read with widening eyes and a quickening heartbeat. Last night, the body of Taylor Hogan disappeared from the morgue at Royal Woods General along with the county medical examiner.

" _Hogan, who died of blood loss..."_

Blood loss.

Just like Lynn.

The paper, however, said that the blood was drawn from the arm. Still, wasn't it just a little _too_ coincidental?

Lucy had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

Rita Loud met with Dr. John Marris in Lynn's room at Royal Woods General. Her daughter was asleep, an IV in her arm. When they brought her in, her blood pressure was low, her heart rate was too slow, and she was dehydrated. Rita rode in the ambulance with her, and the whole way, Lynn complained about the light. "It hurts my eyes," she muttered, squinting.

"What was it?" Rita asked now, looking worriedly at her daughter. Her mouth hung open, and Rita noticed that her gums seemed to have shrunken: Her teeth were more prominent, the canines slightly bigger, slightly sharper. That was a symptom of dehydration if she wasn't mistaken.

"You see those marks on her neck?" Marris asked, pointing to Lynn's throat with a pen. "Looks like a vampire had a go at her, right?"

"I suppose," Rita said.

"That's a snake bite. Somehow a non-venomous snake must have found its way into your house and bit her in her sleep. Her body reacted poorly. I can't say why, yet. She has no history of anemia. We get these in here every once in a while. The body is a funny thing, Mrs. Loud. She'll be fine, though."

Marris left to make his rounds, and Rita silently watched over her daughter. She'd have to call Lynn and have someone come out to the house immediately. If there was a snake in her home, she wanted it dead before it bit any of her other children.

* * *

All that day, Luan Loud could think only of her sister, and of her own dream. In the girl's bathroom, she studied the marks on her neck, and called up an image of the creature responsible. It was a formless shadow with red, glowing eyes, and, she thought, wickedly sharp teeth.

 _It was just a dream, though!_

Only she wasn't entirely convinced that it was. Maybe it was real, maybe...

It was crazy. She shoved it out of her mind and tried to focus on something – anything – else, but it kept returning. When school let out, she walked through the gray autumn afternoon, leaves swirling around her, trying and failing to find an explanation other than the one that was thinking.

At home, she went to her room and sat on her bed. She'd washed her pillow case, but the drops of blood were still there, three of them, very small, very faint. She got up, went into Lynn's room, and looked at the wall, but the blood was gone. Dad must have wiped it up. Back in her room, she opened her laptop, intent on finding a funny video to watch or a crop of new jokes to tell, but before she could, Lucy came into her room and shut the door behind her.

"Hey," Lucy said.

"Hey," Luan replied. "What's up?"

Lucy crossed the room and stood next to her, leaning slightly in. Uncomfortable, Luan leaned back. "What?" she asked.

"Your neck," Lucy said.

A shiver went down Luan's spine. "What about my neck?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded steadier to Lucy than it did to her.

"What's that on your neck? Looks like a bite."

Luan shrugged. "I don't know," she lied.

Sighing, Lucy sat down on the bed. "When Lynn mentioned having a nightmare this morning, I saw you touch your neck and look scared. Those marks on your neck look just like the ones on Lynn's. Did you...did you have a nightmare too?"

For a moment Luan simply looked at her sister, trying to decide whether she should tell her the truth or not. "Yes," she finally said, "I had a dream."

"What about?" Lucy asked.

"Something came into the room and bit my neck," she said. "It was...I don't know, like a shadow, and it had red eyes and fangs. It was just a dream though." Luan tittered and tried to fake a smile. "That's all."

Lucy touched the wounds on Luan's neck, and she flinched. "That doesn't look like a dream to me." She took her hand away and put it in her lap. "And what happened to Lynn didn't look like a dream either."

Luan couldn't reply to that.

"It looks like a vampire bit you."

"Vampires aren't real."

"Maybe they are," Lucy countered.

"Maybe this is crazy and we should forget about it."

Lucy sighed. "Look, you're thinking the same thing I am. I can see it in your eyes. I know it's out there, but what if it's true? What if you and Lynn were both bitten by a vampire?"

Luan shuddered and hugged herself.

"I was thinking..." Lucy started, then stopped. "I was thinking of defense."

Luan's brow furrowed. "Defense?"

"Yeah," Lucy said, "we have garlic in the pantry. If we mash some up and mix it with water, we can smear it on all the door and window frames. I know you have a roasary, we all do. Things like that."

Luan sighed. "Who says garlic even works? Maybe it doesn't. That's movie stuff."

"True," Lucy said, "but we have to do _something_. And we can't exactly tell everyone else. They'll think we're nuts."

"It might be worth it." Luan said, then hastened to add, "i-if it's real."

Lucy sighed. The thing was she didn't _know_ if it was real. It certainly looked that way, but then again, it once looked like their parents were going to kick them out of the house. Instead, they were talking about ties. This was different, though. Lucy had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, a gut instinct. It told her that her and her family were in danger. Luan had been attacked, Lynn was in the hospital...maybe she was entirely wrong, maybe she was jumping at shadows, but, damn it, she couldn't just sit by while the potential existed for any more of her loved ones to get hurt.

An idea occurred to her. "We'll tell Lincoln."

"Lincoln?" Luan asked.

"Yeah, maybe he'll have some good ideas. He's very smart." And handsome and funny and caring. She didn't mention those qualities, though; she could already feel a blush spreading across her cheeks.

In his room, Lincoln Loud laid on his bed, a walkie talkie in his hand. "You'll be at school tomorrow?"

"No," Clyde said, "tomorrow's Saturday."

Oh. Lincoln had entirely forgotten.

When he got home, the first thing he did was call Clyde, who wasn't at school today. "I'm just feeling a little sick," he said. "I think it's the flu."

He mentioned feeling groggy and listless, the same symptoms Luan had. When he thought of his older sister, his mind flashed back to that morning, her face going pale and her hand fluttering to her neck. It struck him as odd, but in the chaos surrounding Lynn's hospitalization, he let it go. Now, as the dark afternoon began to dim toward night, he wondered. What if the same thing that happened to Luan was happening to Lynn? And if it _was_ , it wasn't the flu, at least no flu Lincoln had ever seen: The flu doesn't make you splatter blood all over your room.

"If you're feeling better, you wanna hang out?" Lincoln asked into the radio.

"Sure," Clyde came back, "I'm feeling okay even now. I just needed some sleep and something to eat."

Lincoln started to ask what Clyde was doing now, then an idea occurred to him. "Hey, did you...did you have a nightmare last night?"

For a moment Clyde didn't respond, then, "Yeah."

Lincoln swallowed. "What was it about?"

"I dunno," Clyde said hurriedly. He sounded like he was lying.

"Come on, what was it?"

Clyde drew a heavy sigh. "Taylor Hogan came to my window. I don't remember the rest, just that she was there looking in at me. Then I think she came in."

Lincoln shivered. "That's pretty scary."

"Yeah," Clyde said, then. "I think she bit my neck."

Someone knocked on his door, and he jumped a foot. "Gotta go," he said, and turned off the radio. "Who is it?"

"Lucy," came the muffled reply.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Lucy was there, Luan next to her, looking off to one side and playing with her ponytail. She looked...troubled.

"What's wrong?" Lincoln asked.

Lucy opened her mouth, but before she could speak, mom called up the stairs, "Kids! We're going to Pissy's Pizza! Come on!"

Lucy sighed, then looked up. "That's actually kind of perfect." Lincoln watched as she went to the head of the stairs. "Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Me, Lincoln, and Luan are working on a project for school. Can we not go?"

"Okay," mom said hesitantly, "are you sure?"

"Yeah," Lucy replied, looking at Lincoln. "We need to get busy."

"Do you want me to bring you some back?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

Lucy came back into the room and shut the door.

"What are you doing?" Lincoln asked. "I wanna go to Pissy's!"

"We need to talk," Lucy said.

"About what?"

"About..." Lucy started, then stopped, looking at Luan. "Let's wait until they're gone, then we'll show you."

Lincoln was confused. He looked from one sister to the other. "What's going on?"

Lucy sighed and sat on Lincoln's bed. "Just...chill, okay?" She reached out and put her hand on his leg, and he stroked it. She blushed and looked away. Luan, leaning against the door, noticed, and raised an eyebrow.


	11. The Final Night

John Carver did not sleep that day: He lay awake in his coffin, his eyes open and blazing and his fangs descended. The taste of the girl's blood lingered in his mouth, tantalizing him. It wasn't enough, though. He sorely regretted biting her and not Lucy. Sweet, dark, pale Lucy. He envisioned himself plucking Lucy out of her bed, cradling her in his arms, and pressing his lips to her throat: An electric thrill ran through his body, and he let out a long, needy moan.

Tonight, he decided, tonight he would take the girl and make her his. He wouldn't turn her, not entirely. He would bring her to the brink of death and let her return. She would be like her sister. Not dead. Not undead. A phantom on the border, her heart still beating, her flesh still (somewhat) warm. He would drink from her every other night, lying her down and kissing her neck until he was finished, or she was finished. He wouldn't be able to take much, not at first. As she blossomed, however, he would take more, and more, and more, until she lie dead before him. Then, maybe, he would cut his wrist and fill her stomach with his blood and send her out into the night.

After many hours, Carver could take it no longer, and climbed out of his coffin. Muted gray light fell through the window; the room was largely in shadows. He went to the window, the murky gloom hot against his skin. He peered out, but his eyes stung, and he had to look away.

Behind him, the door burst open, and Straker rushed in with a gun.

"It's just me," Carver said, his voice a hissing rattle.

"What are you doing awake?" Straker asked.

"I couldn't sleep." He touched the window, his fingertips burning. "I have to have her. Tonight. As soon as the sun sets."

"Sir," Straker said, sticking the gun into his coat, "I advise you to reconsider."

"Fuck you," Carver spat.

"If you go over there, you will have ten other people to deal with."

"I'm not worried about them."

"You may very well attract attention. Imagine the police arriving before you've left."

"I'm not worried about the police either."

"What about the hunters? They've probably already seen today's headlines. A body missing from the morgue. A murder victim. Who was drained of blood."

"I'm not worried about the hunters," Carver said, turning away from the window. His face was a light shade of red. Sunburn. He was so far gone that he didn't care. Straker knew his master lost control from time to time, but he had _never_ seen it this bad. His fangs had been down since at least last night.

"You should be," Straker said. "They will drive a wooden stake through your chest and chop your head off. After executing _me_ , of course."

"If you're such a coward, leave."

"If you go over there and perpetrate a massacre..."

" _What?"_ Carver screamed, wheeling around. Before Straker knew it, Carver's cold hands were around his throat, and he was being lifted off the ground. _"If I perpetrate a massacre what? Are you going to defect? Turn traitor to save your own life?"_

Carver was shaking him. Straker tried to speak, but his master's grip was too strong. He felt his windpipe crush, and the world started to gray at the edges. He balled his fists and struck out at Carver's face, landing a blow on his left cheek. The vampire showed no sign that he had even felt it.

When Straker went limp, Carver flung him against the wall; he hit and fell to the floor in a heap. Screaming, Carver flipped his coffin off its platform, sank his arm into the wall, and ripped out a stud, which he flung at the window; it shattered, and the sound made Carver even angrier. He spun, went to Straker, and kicked him in the stomach. Then he grabbed the bedroom door and ripped it off its hinges.

His fury was great, but short-lived. He collapsed to the floor and slowly regained his composure. He was shaky. He'd expended too much energy. He glanced at Straker, his stomach turning. He didn't want to feed on the man, but he crawled across the floor and gashed his neck open anyway; the blood was already cold and beginning to congeal, but it was blood, and it replaced some of his vim.

When he was done, he drew his knees to his chest and sat next to his dead servant. The light against the window pane faded, and the shadows lengthened. Nightfall was coming. Soon, he would hold his queen of the night, and together, they would leave this miserable place. Vermont, maybe, or Washington State. He'd lived in both, and liked both. He glanced at Straker's body. He'd need a new thrall. Once he had Lucy and his thirst was slaked, he would go in search of a street person. They made the best servants.

The light drained from the sky.

It was dusk.

* * *

In her room at Royal Woods General, Lynn Loud woke at dusk, the pall of lethargy that had been over her all day lifting. She yawned, stretched, and looked around, vaguely remembering that she was in the hospital, but not remembering exactly how she'd gotten there. She sat up and hugged herself. She was cold. So cold.

And thirsty.

She looked around for a call button, but didn't see one. She felt along the side of the bed and pushed a button; the foot of the bed lowered. She pushed another one, and the head lifted. She jabbed another, and a bell sounded. Moments later, a large, matronly woman with glasses came into the room. She was wearing a white pants and a blue scrub top. "You're awake!" she said happily. "Finally. Do you need anything?"

Lynn nodded, licking her dry lips. "Something to drink."

"I have just the thing," the nurse said, then left the room again. Lynn lifted her hand to her face and touched her brow. A vision flashed before her mind. A thing biting her in the night. She remembered enjoying it.

"Here you go," the nurse said, coming into the room with a paper cup. Lynn took it and looked inside. Orange juice.

"Perfect for your needs," the nurse said.

"Thank you," Lynn muttered. She lifted the cup to her lips, but froze when her eyes fell on the chain around the woman's neck, her heart beginning to race and her stomach clenching.

"Are you alright?" the nurse asked, suddenly worried. She came closer, and Lynn recoiled, dropping the cup onto the bed and spilling juice on the covers.

"Oh, my," the nurse said, "I'll be right back."

She hurried away, presumably to get new blankets, and Lynn sat up, panting as though she'd just run a marathon. _That was strange._

And indeed it was. She didn't know what came over her. When she saw the necklace, she just...lost it. Why?

It didn't make sense. She'd seen the cross a million times before...

* * *

They were sitting at the kitchen table, a clove of garlic and a metal bowl full of water on the table before them. "I know it sounds crazy," Lucy said.

Lincoln sighed. It _did_ sound kind of crazy. Then again, what Lucy and Luan had told them, along with what happened to Lynn and Clyde (not to mention Taylor Hogan), he couldn't say it didn't make a terrible kind of sense. "A little," he said, "but what's been happening around here sounds pretty crazy too."

Luan hugged herself. "I _hope_ we're crazy. If this is..." she shuddered.

"What we're going to do," Lucy said, "is make a paste with the garlic. When it's done, and before everyone gets back, we're going to smear it on every door and window frame so that it can't get in. We all have rosaries, right?"

Lincoln and Luan both nodded. "Yeah," Lincoln said. "I don't know where mine is, though."

"You better find it," Lucy said. "I think it might try to come back tonight, and I want to be ready. We..."

The window over the sink exploded, and something landed in the middle of the table. Luan screamed and fell out of her chair. Lucy cried out and jumped up. Lincoln shrank back, his heart blasting into his throat. The bowl dumped and clattered to the floor, the garlic clove rolled away.

When Lincoln saw what sat on the table before him, he screamed.

A severed head.

Mr. Straker's severed head.

"Oh my God!" Luan screamed. Lincoln and Lucy both looked at the window. A face was there, long, spindly arms reaching through and gripping the wall. Lincoln's soul petrified as he drank in the terrible countenance. Glowing red eyes, long fangs, white, nearly translucence skin.

The thing stuck its legs through, moving with an inhuman, ghost-like dexterity. Lucy fell back a step, her body stiff, and Lincoln reached out to her. "Come here."

She did, and he shoved her behind him. "Luan!"

Luan stood in the middle of the floor, frozen, her eyes wide with terror. The vampire emerged through the window and floated to one side, its back pressed firmly againgt the wall, its eyes blazing and its mouth open in a demonic grin. It picked its way hand over hand along the wall.

"Luan!" Lincoln screamed.

Striking so quickly that Lincoln nearly missed it, the vampire leapt to the floor and grabbed Luan, wrapping one of its arms around her neck and turning to face Lincoln. Luan yelled and fought.

" _Lucy..."_ it said, _"come to me. Come to me or I'll kill her."_

Luan stomped on its foot, but it didn't notice.

"Let her go," Lincoln said, his voice shaky.

" _Lucy..."_

Looking frantically around for something – anything – Lincoln spotted the garlic clove. He bent down, wound up, and threw it at the vampire's face. It caught the clove, brought it to its mouth, and took a big bite.

" _Lucy..."_

Lucy started to move, and Lincoln grabbed her. "Lucy, no!"

"I have to," Lucy said with trembling lips. "He's going to kill Luan."

She pulled away, and Lincoln watched as his little sister went to the creature. Grinning, the vampire shoved Luan away; she stumbled, crashed headfirst into the wall, and fell to the floor. The vampire grabbed Lucy and held her up.

" _Let he go!"_ Lincoln cried, throwing himself at the creature. It grabbed him by the head, picked up him, and threw him into the fridge.

Holding Lucy under one arm, the vampire went out the window, withdrawing like liquid. Lincoln sat up, catching a glimpse of Lucy's face. Tears coursed down her cheeks. "Lincoln," she said, "I love you."

Lincoln jumped to his feet. The creature was backing out the window.

"Let her go!"

" _Come and get her, little boy,"_ it said, and disappeared, leaving Lincoln standing alone in the kitchen, tears welling in his eyes.

Luan.

Coming out of his reprieve, he rushed to his fallen sister and knelt. "Luan!" He scooped her up. She was breathing but unconscious, a trickle of blood falling down her forehead. Panting, Lincoln threw a glance at the window.

She was gone. Lucy was gone.

He started to cry, but willed him to stop. He had to be strong. For her. She needed him.

He got to his feet, and his eyes fell upon Mr. Straker's head. Next door. The vampire was next door.

Upstairs, he frantically ripped his room apart looking for his rosary, but couldn't find it. He rushed out into the hall, intent on dumping someone else's room if he had to, but his eyes landed on something, a wall decoration hanging above a table. A metal cross with -shaped edges. His breath catching in his throat, he grabbed it, took it down, and rushed into the kitchen. Luan was sitting up, rubbing her head. "Call mom!" Lincoln said. "Tell her...I don't know, just get her home."

He started for the back door.

"Where are you going?"

"To get Lucy."

"Lincoln..."

He ignored her. Outside, he turned to the house next door. Flickering light blazed in an upstairs window. He went to the fence, found the loose board, and slipped into the next yard. The back of his neck tingled, and he was hyper-aware of his surroundings. He could be walking into a trap.

Moving low and fast, he went to Straker's back door and hunched door. What the hell was he doing? That thing would tear him apart.

He didn't care, he realized, as long as he could distract the vampire long enough for Lucy to get away. He loved her. God, he loved her so much. He loved her voice and her hair and her eyes and the way she made him feel inside. He loved the feeling of her lips against his and her heartbeat against his chest, he loved her smell and her presence and everything about her.

Taking a deep breath, he reached up and turned the knob. It was open. Inside, the kitchen was an inky pit of blackness. Steeling himself for an attack, Lincoln slipped inside, moving at a crouch, listening. He heard nothing. At the threshold to the living room, he paused. Still, no noise. In fact, the house was eerily silent. Like a tomb.

In the living room, a humped figure lay by the front window, and Lincoln's breath caught in his throat. What if it was the vampire?

Holding the cross out, Lincoln moved close to the heap; in a spill of a streetlight falling through the window, he saw what it was, and gasped: A body, a ragged, bloody stump where its head should have been. Lincoln started to turn away, but something glinted inside its jacket, catching his eye. With a trembling hand, he reached in pulled out a handgun.

Upstairs, something thumped, and Lincoln froze, terror gripping him.

Lucy.

He had to get Lucy.

* * *

John Carver had completely lost control. His body trembled and his mind ached. His vision was blurry and it was hard to think. Lucy lie before him in his coffin, her tiny form taking up barely half of the space. A thousand candles burned around them, their fleeting light caressing her soft face. She was unconscious.

Standing over her, his eyes never leaving her, Carver shrugged out of his coat and threw it aside. He undid the top button of his shirt, and pulled it away from his chest. He wouldn't be able to stop himself, he realized vaguely. He would drink every last drop of her blood and that would be that. He didn't want to, he wanted to keep her and hold her in his arms as he fed, but alas, it was not to be.

"Sweet Lucy," he whispered, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "Sweet, sweet Lucy." He leaned in and breathed deeply of her aroma, his eyes rolling back into his head. Her blood was hot, fresh, and pure, the way only the blood of young girls can be. He kissed her cheek, then her chin, then her other cheek. His knees trembled, his stomach quaked. He kissed her neck, tracing a pulsing vein with his lips, touching it with the tip of his tongue. A shiver went down his spine, and he opened his mouth, grazing her soft skin with his fangs, pressing hard, but not hard enough to draw blood. He touched her face and ran his hand through her midnight hair. His breaths came in short, hot gasps. He trailed his fangs down her arm to her hand, leaving red scratch marks along her flesh.

He pulled back, ready to leaned in for the final bite.

"Get away from her."

Carver turned, and the boy was there, an obscene religious artefact thrust before him. Carver's eyes widened, a band tightening around his heart. The boy took a step forward, and Carver fell back.

"Lucy?" The boy came forward again, and Carver took another step back. At the coffin, he glanced at his sister, his chest tightening.

"What did you do?" he asked, fixing hateful eyes on the creature before him. Carver didn't reply, he was backed into a corner. He looked around for something to use as a weapon, his eyes falling on a vase.

"Lucy, wake up," Lincoln said miserably. In the coffin, Lucy moaned.

"L-Lincoln?"

Lincoln took his eyes off the vampire for a single second; when he turned back, a vase smashed into his face, knocking him down. The cross flew from his hand and clattered to the ground.

Before he could recover, Carver was on top of him, his eyes blazing. "You idiot!" Carver screamed, slapping Lincoln hard across the face. His ears rang. Another slap, and Lincoln cried out. "I ought to kill you," Carver growled, leaning in close. "But I won't...I'm going to make you watch as I turn your sister...then I'll let _her_ kill you."

Lincoln reached for the gun. It was tucked in the side of his pants, covered by his shirt. His fingers trembled and his heart raced. Carver smiled. "Then I'll turn _you_ and let you kill the rest of your sisters."

Screaming, Lincoln yanked the gun out, shoved it under Carver's chin, and pulled the trigger, the vampire's eyes widened a split second before the top of his head exploded in a shower of brain matter and skull fragments. Blood splattered Lincoln's face.

Howling, Carver fell over, his hands covering his face. Lincoln jumped to his feet, bumping into the coffin. Lucy was still lying there, breathing heavy. "Lincoln..." she muttered. "What's...what's going on?"

Ignoring her, Lincoln grabbed her by the front of her shirt and dragged her out. Carver was on his knees now, still cradling his injured face. He tried to get to his feet, but sank down. "You bastard!"

"Can you walk?" Lincoln screamed.

"Yeah," Lucy said, putting her hand to her head. Lincoln let her go, and she was shaky, but didn't fall.

"Go," said.

"Lincoln..."

"Go!" He grabbed her and dragged her to the door, shoving her through. He spotted the cross, snatched it up, and gave it to her. She looked at him dazedly.

"Please," he said, and kissed her deeply.

Before she could protest, he turned back to Carver, who was on his feet. Lincoln had a plan.

Grabbing one of the candles, he threw it at the shattered window. It landed near the hem of the curtain, and flames raced up. He looked around, spotted a chair by the door, and picked it up, using it to knock all of the candles from the credenza. They clattered to the floor. He threw the chair, then dumped Carver's coffin. It crashed to the floor, landing on its side. One of the candles caught the satin lining, and in moments it was burning.

Flames filled the room. Carver staggered into a wall, bounced, and fell. The smoke was getting heavy.

Lincoln stood in the doorway, watching as the fire spread. Carver, on his knees once more, was surrounded. His hands fell from his face, and he looked around, a look of terror in his eyes.

When the fire touched him, he wailed. Satisfied, Lincoln slammed the door and ran down the stairs. He found Lucy sitting on the top step, her arms wrapped around her chest. She looked back at him, and he knelt beside her. "Come on," he panted, "it's over."

In the conflagration, John Carver threw his head back and screamed as the flames licked his body, the skin melting from the bone. He'd lost control. And he regretted it.

And to think. He was done in not by hunters, but by an eleven-year-old boy.

* * *

Carver died at 7:15pm. At that moment, Taylor Hogan, creeping through a stand of forest, fell limp. Henry Wickline did the same, falling dead in someone's backyard. Lynn Loud, sitting up in her hospital bed, felt something rush away from her, and lost consciousness. When she woke, she was not thirsty, and the sight of the nurse's cross did not affect her.

Lincoln and Lucy stumbled into front yard, arm-in-arm, just as Vanzilla pulled into the driveway. Mom was the first one out, rushing to their side. "What happened?"

Next door, flames curled out several second story windows and caressed the roof.

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. They wouldn't believe him.


	12. What are We?

Weeks passed. The going theory at the Royal Woods Police Department was that Richard Straker and the unidentified man found in the ashes were serial killers who drained their victims' blood in some sort of vampire-like ritual. They had an argument, the John Doe killed Straker, and then abducted Lucy.

Lincoln was hailed as a hero. That was nice. But he didn't care.

He had Lucy, and that's all that mattered.

On a chilly evening just before Halloween, they lay in Lincoln's bed; the way she fit in his arms felt so right, so natural. The others were no doubt wondering about their increased displays of affection. The handholding, the snuggling on the couch, the way they were almost always together. They'd bonded, they thought. He _did_ save her life, after all.

Lincoln was drifting on the verge of sleep when Lucy's voice brought him back. "What are we?"

"Hm?"

She turned and looked at him. "What are we?"

He smiled and brushed her hair aside. Her big blue eyes shimmered, and his heart fluttered.

"Brother and sister," he said, and kissed the tip of her nose.

She giggled. "Is that all?"

"What else do we need to be?" He laid his hand on her cheek and brushed his lips against hers.

"Nothing," she panted, and kissed him.


End file.
